Unfollow Me Now, It's December Challenge Time
by ThatSassyCaptain
Summary: Very excited it's HadesLordoftheDead's December calendar challenge 2019 and I'm gonna take the opportunity to rev up the writing engine by doing (all? most? as many as I can) of the prompts. Most recent Prompt Number: 31!
1. Day 1

**A/N: I've never done a calendar challenge before so yeehaw. Also not beta'd by the nature of the challenge. Aaaand I didn't spin it through the Brit-inator so them's the breaks fellas.**

**From Ennui Enigma: First Snow**

"W-would you know it, Doctor Watson, I've n-never seen s-snow before."

Our young client was bundled to the ears in makeshift blankets. The manor house's outbuilding was little more than a glorified storage shed and kept the heat about as well. What I had been able to find stood more in the line of feed sacks than blankets. The lad's stable-hand disguise was his saving grace. Hiding amongst the horses necessitated warmer gear.

"Grandmother wrote about it often, b-but we'd never m-made a trip north during winter."

The cut on his head had stopped bleeding, mostly. We'd had a narrow escape. If our luck lasted until Holmes arrived on the morning train, I'd be much relieved. The only benefit I could see to being stranded in a snowstorm was that our client's murderous uncle would have a harder time getting at us.

"England is so c-cold, Doctor Watson. Would I have to st-stay if I s-survive to inherit?"

Thinking like that would hardly keep him through the night. We shouldn't keep a lantern, though I set a curtain rod askew as a sign for Holmes and the low light was better than none. It wouldn't last, however. We would be longing for as much as a candle once night fell, or something else to raise our spirits.

"You might learn to love it, Mister Wainwright. Once Holmes arrives you'll see it in a different light."

I could see his breath as he huffed something too low for me to hear. While the tone sounded more positive, it may be in his best interest to stay quiet. I doubted his uncle would be out and about to hear him, but the man had already killed twice. Most likely he would let the storm take care of us. Ever an opportunist...

I glanced out the window again. It seemed the light was fading. In the dead of winter this would be more disconcerting, but snow had come early. It would be fourteen, sixteen hours at most until Holmes arrived, barring any accident.

"You know Doc-Doctor... I may be warming to it after all. It's n-not so cold as it felt earlier."

That did not reassure me at all. My own hands were cold to the point of numbness, and though it was an ill development I was relieved that my skin no longer stung. It would, I reminded myself, when we were allowed to come in from the storm.

"Don't let down your guard, Mister Wainwright. We've got a night ahead of us and your uncle still on the prowl." I could still see enough of his face to watch it crease in displeasure. Murderous uncle or no, I felt I would need to build a fire before long.

"You c-could take him, Doctor. I th-think." He swallowed, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. "Uncle Thomas is so very old."

I bit back a laugh. "I've met men of three-and-fifty with more than enough fire to kill. Best if we stayed vigilant." I would have to build that fire. Sooner rather than later, I thought as I stretched my hands with a wince. Young Wainwright might not last the night, and if I wanted to stay in fighting shape I would have to make changes. But, the smoke from the fire would certainly alert Thomas Wainwright. Perhaps I would have to set a trap for him- and use myself and our client as bait.

It was a necessity I did not relish. But there was no other choice to be made, and so I stood and moved to gather logs. If Wainwright had any objections he didn't voice them. I wasn't going to worry about lighting a match until I had the logs stacked and, after that, keeping the flame alive would not be a concern until I had one struck.

In the end it was almost too easy. The wood had been kept dry, and the fireplace well attended. My concern for our safety only grew. While our chances of surviving the storm had improved, the chances of succumbing to less natural causes increased as well. I found my revolver in the pocket of my coat, now draped over young Wainwright. Instead of huddling next to him I paced. I would keep the blood pumping, my gun at the ready, the door-

A sound at the entrance had me aiming and ready before our client could complete the turn. The hammer was drawn back and we waited in silence. I jerked the barrel to the ceiling when Holmes poked his nose over the threshold.

"Ah, Watson! Mister Wainwright. I daresay the manor house is more hospitable than this shed- well, now that the pest problem's been cleared up."

I shook my head at his theatrical appearance. More than once he'd pulled the same trick when I was sent away on account of his 'more urgent business' that had to be attended to before he could focus his attentions on a new case. Preposterous. And I fell for it again. "Thanks to you I suppose, Holmes?"

"Of course." He looked smug about it too. "Your dear uncle doesn't have half the bite of this snowstorm."

Our client grinned and piped up. "My first, Mister Holmes!"

"Well!" My friend was unusually cheery over the victory. I was sure he would spare no detail once the police were here, or when his client was in a better posture for listening. "I hope you have many more less perilous. English winters are capable of _some_ beauty."

"I told him as much." I bent to help our client to his feet. No use reveling in the victory if we were all still in mortal peril. "Come, Holmes, help me get him inside before we all freeze."

To his credit, he hopped to it. Better still was the denouement by a roaring fire, ensconced in blankets, and secure in the knowledge that the murderer was locked in the wine cellar surrounded by drafts and rats. Poetic justice.


	2. Day 2

**From PowerOfPens: An Inspector defends Holmes.**

"That, sir, is quite near enough to slander. I'd advise you go no further in the presence of a policeman."

Puzzled, and having missed a great deal given what context I could attach to this statement, I lifted my head. The argument was coming from the hall. I did not know who the second party was, but I recognized Lestrade's voice well enough. I should think I could place him from underwater, or in my sleep. We have worked together often enough, and his is one of the voices I would acknowledge at once in times of danger. One of the few. While Lestrade is not known for his own bounds in deduction (and while Watson's early descriptor of 'ferret-faced' is not wholly inaccurate), I have found I can trust him when it came to life-or-death.

And in this case, a matter of reputation.

They were speaking loud enough as to not be aware of my presence. Either that or both men were so bold as to not care whether I heard or not. I had no data as to the identity of the second man. Lestrade, I knew, preferred to have his say in person. He would defend the party of slander directly had they been there. Alternatively, he might privately reprimand the slanderer though more-so if they were not a subordinate. He would not want an audience. It stood to reason he had no idea I was within earshot.

While gossip is a sin and listening at doors more of a taboo, I got up and left the autopsy report on the desk. It would keep, as would the cadaver in the next room. One man's private conversation may well be a detective's break in the case. I could save myself some trouble and hear what had to be said straight from the Inspector's mouth.

"He's not on your payroll, Inspector. Nor is he well-loved by Scotland Yard. I thought you of all people would be a sympathetic ear, what with that story in the Strand painting your lot as bunglers and him as the up-and-comer."

_Ah._ One did not need my deductive prowess to guess of whom they spoke. Watson's first foray into literature had done wonders for my professional reputation, though I will never admit it to be so. They are more generous to me than they are to nearly all the other players. The man Watson and I have referred to as 'Lestrade' thus far was a near transparent caricature.

As such, I did not expect what he said next.

"I will grant you that much of the tale is fiction." He sounded as if he was reining in his temper. I soundlessly approached the door to hear more. "But his methods are as solid as stone. His conduct is unimpeachable. I cannot attest to the _rumor_ you have heard about him working on a case here today. Let me also reassure you that he is not on your case. Here at the Yard, we do take the wishes of all associated parties into account."

I could practically see his expression. This was a tone often pointed at me, so I could picture very well the scowling brow and tight creases in his face. Very formal and clipped for a dressing-down, but it was an area Lestrade excelled in. I imagined the object of his ire to be upper class, or a gentleman of some sort at the least. Respectable enough.

He continued quickly. "Accusations based on rumor, hearsay, and _popular fiction_ would bring you very close to a charge. I will advise you again not to make them."

I chose this moment to save the pair of them a more heated argument. It could go poorly either way, if one or the other decided to escalate. I hurried back to the desk and snatched up the autopsy report. Then, I loudly made my way back toward the hall, opening and slamming the mortuary door on the way.

"Quite the case you have here, Lestrade." I breezed through the next door as if I hadn't heard a word. He had obviously been told I was here, and I knew his schedule well enough by now. "I think it would be prudent if we concentrated our efforts on-" Here I stopped as if I noticed the gentleman- _upper class, poor rugby player in school, old money-_ for the first time.

Lestrade handled my abrupt entrance with more aplomb than I was due. "Mister Holmes. I didn't know you had come in to review the file today."

A bald-faced lie and we both knew it. At least it gave his verbal sparring partner an easy escape. He made his excuses and a hasty retreat in a matter of moments. I do not place much weight in the words or actions of others in regards to my person or profession. Watson, bless him, had said worse things in well-meaning ignorance of detection than I imagine Lestrade's visitor had said. No, comments of that variety did not matter. I was a self-made man. I was the creator of my own profession and curator of everything that it meant. A frivolous word from a man who knew so little meant absolutely nothing.

But Lestrade, knowing this or not, had sought to defend my reputation regardless.

"I have noticed a few discrepancies in the autopsy you might be able to clear up for me." I flipped through the stack of papers as if no one had been there at all. "Either you have a truly awful Police Surgeon in your employ, or the case is more complex than we first believed."

The scowl on his face remained unchanged, but anyone trained in the art of observation would see the difference in his eyes.


	3. Day 3

**Warning and it's also _Spoilers_**: [[implied character death]]  
AU, Prompt at the end

* * *

All of the pieces had to move according to plan. The carriages had to depart on time and arrive on time. Every train had to be in and out of station in line with the conductor's watch. Not too much snow should sit on the peaks. Not too much water should spill onto the path…

He had planned his every move and that of his companion. His adversary was every bit as brilliant as his reputation suggested. But now he was a hunted animal. Desperation could drive even logical minds off their course. A volatile element would be their ruin. He could only hope that his enemy, his arch rival, would arrive without bringing too much turmoil.

Sitting on a rock and smoking, he watched the trees. April sat a little differently on the continent. But the world would turn in spite of his victories and shortcomings. An Empire may hang in the balance, but the leaves would not grow for him, nor the rain rise at his command to sweep away his enemies.

No, he was mortal. What mean comfort he found in that fact lie in that his adversary shared the condition. Mortality. He and death had shared a curious dance over the years. He had seen the Grim Reaper as both a foe and an ally. While there was so much he could predict, there was also the certainty that nothing was certain. Victory wasn't assured. He thought back to that fatal conversation. Oh, the things that had said to each other, the things they had promised.

Now he was keenly aware of just how far he would go to protect what was his. He thought of his ever-faithful right hand hurrying down the path back towards the _Englischer Hof_. Loyalty, in this case, was a beautiful means to an end. It meant a great weight off of his shoulders and a lightness in his mind about what was to come.

It was ironic, he supposed, that the last battle would likely not be won with wits. They had led each other on a merry game of cat and mouse. For a while, it was uncertain what role each fulfilled. The game had gradually turned into chess. They both had very few pieces left. But precious knights and pawns and even queens would not save a king in checkmate.

He didn't hear the shot, no one would, but he saw a flurry of birds retreating in the distance. Maybe his enemy had seen them too. Would he know? Perhaps it would be better if he never understood. Kinder. But promises had been made that would not lightly be broken.

With a final sigh he stood and made his way up the hiking trail. Not too much snow on the peaks, not too much water had spilled upon the path.

"Before we settle for all time these eternal questions that lie between us, would you do me a favor?"

"Name it."

"I wish… to write a letter. I have some fondness for Doctor Watson and I would not have him wondering what became of me."

"You may, of course, though I do not think he will ever read it." He said. His enemy's face paled. A thousand emotions flickered over that once-placid face like the guttering of a dying flame. The once proud man finally settled on despair, and the victor grinned. He knew his enemy would go to that final rest assured that he was a man of his word. He had, after all, promised one eventuality: checkmate.

_"Goodbye, Mister Sherlock Holmes."_

**From sirensbane: _Moriarty wins_**

**A/N: I'm new to writing for the fandom and wanted to gift you all with my specialty: soul-crushing angst!  
**

**This particular scenario was much inspired by the old timey radio play starring John Gielgud, Ralph Richardson, and Orson Welles as Moriarty. It's on spotify and other places I'm sure. Well worth a listen, true to canon, and kinder to Watson than many of the adaptations of the day.**


	4. Day 4

**From sirensbane: Doorknobs**

"Holmes." He was still huddled over the scale, lost in his task. It was like he hadn't even heard me enter. That surprised me, as I was out of breath from running. I had made some noise trying to hurry to his urgent summons. If he was going to drag a man from his dinner with no more than a cryptic telegram, then he should be prepared to explain more fully. I tried again.

"Holmes?"

"Hmm?" He didn't lift his head, but tossed another shimmering ornament aside. I thought he should be more careful, considering the nature of his task. But then I remembered he hadn't told me what we were doing and I was at peace.

"If there is no purpose to this exercise I'll leave you to it."

That got his attention. He discarded another bauble and shot up from his stoop. "Of course there's a purpose to it, Watson!" Holmes gestured to the stacks of boxes all around us. I had, in fact, observed them. Only a blind man would fail to see them, and given their quantity they would not escape his notice for long. Perhaps it was a rhetorical sweeping gesture of indignation. Perhaps I was to have divined some additional significance from the limited and confusing information available.

It looked like Holmes had been here a while. I make no claims to brilliance, but the tobacco ash all over the floor and the table were hard to miss. He had a lantern with him too, so one could infer Holmes expected to stay a while still. But even from this I could not attach significance to the task of… weighing doorknobs.

"Astounding, Holmes! Why, it all seems so simple now."

He responded with a scowl. "You obviously received my telegram and explanation. Why else would you be here?"

I had. But I wasn't through with him. Mary had made scalloped potatoes, and I would have my satisfaction. So, I made a show of retrieving the crumpled paper from my coat and handing it over.

"Of course! But it's quite beyond me. Really, I think only some kind of genius or wizard could piece it out!"

He snatched the telegram from my hand, grumbling. "There's no need to do the Voice." Moving back to his lantern, he unwadded the paper and held it up to the light. "See here- '_Watson have case at hand, Stop. Meet at client site right away, Stop_.' Perfectly clear, as evidenced by your arrival."

I waited. His tone had turned smug but he kept reading. "I see you've missed… '_His peat find leed en sale, Final Stop_.' That… No, that doesn't make sense at all." I watched his eyes flicker over the nonsensical message. He mouthed the words, and his brow furrowed further in confusion. Absently, his hand began to mime holding a pen and moved along with his fifth re-read of the missive. Suddenly his confusion cleared and he looked up.

"I may have been unduly hasty in my composition."

"And you dashed out before the clerk could-"

Holmes interrupted swiftly. "The matter at hand is so urgent I had not the time to review the message. I am glad you are here nonetheless, we have a hard night's work ahead of us."

It was as near an apology as I was likely to get. But, he had dragged me away from my wife and her potatoes with no explanation on the horizon. I could dig in my heels when it suited me. While I knew of his client and his case, there was much information Holmes had neglected. If it was really so important, he could take the time to explain.

He gave me another withering look before gesturing to the scale. "The Milestone Diamond, Watson!"

"I have heard tell of it, Holmes." I was starting to see where he was going, but I did get a mean satisfaction from watching his eyes bug out. Sensing this, Holmes straightened his demeanor and fell back into colder mannerisms usually reserved for problem clients and Scotland Yard Superintendents.

"Our thief was in Mister Winston's employ. He stole the diamond and hid it in the one place no one would find it, or at least, no one would find it before he's released from lack of evidence in-" Holmes paused to check his pocket watch, "-Nine hours, twenty-seven minutes. Less if he makes a fuss about it."

"So he hid it among thousands and thousands of decorative glass doorknobs?"

Holmes slammed a hand on the table, rattling the scale. "Yes, Watson! So, for want of time and proper lighting I am going to weigh them until I find it. Since there is only one Milestone Diamond, I have cut the time in half by weighing two doorknobs at once. They are all otherwise identical, and-"

In times of great trial, such as war, I have seen men become overwhelmed by circumstances too great for the mind to process. It was a coping mechanism I was somewhat familiar with, though Holmes' logic was so close to sound that I doubt he would see the flaw in it right away. With such a vast host of doorknobs to examine, it was simplicity itself for him to find a shortcut and miss the forest for the trees.

"Holmes." I interrupted more gently. I did not wish to crush his idea or help him sort through thousands of doorknobs in pursuit of a single, slightly different one. "I highly doubt our thief was of the caliber of criminal you are used to, no matter how clever his immediate solution. Is it possible he left himself some sort of clue? I would not want to sort through so many fakes if I were trying to make a quick getaway."

He paused with his hands over the scale. Perfectly symmetrical glass doorknobs again. For a moment, I thought I saw the realization crushing down on him, but he quickly straightened and turned back to me.

"As ever, a brilliant conductor of light, Watson! It should only take a few hours to sort through all of these crates. It will cut our time in half again! Perhaps he introduced a small flaw, something to let himself know-"

"Oh, surely he didn't have time for that. He is no expert thief." I reined myself back in, lest I slip into 'the Voice' and alert him. "He wouldn't want to take chances."

Holmes paused, and his eyes flickered over the vast array of crates in the warehouse. Only twenty or so actually held doorknobs, not counting the two he had already been through. Eventually, he honed in on one.

I helped him open the offending crate, though I couldn't tell what kind of mark had been made upon it. Packing straw spilled out and Holmes smiled into the mass of doorknobs before he got to digging. Within seconds he had isolated the one that was different. Whatever had possessed Mister Winston to manufacture novelty doorknobs with his own precious jewel as the model, I couldn't guess.

"Watson, I present the Milestone Diamond." Holmes held it aloft, looking tired. Perhaps the futility of the exercise was weighing on him. He would have located it, I have no doubt, since the crate was relatively near to the front...

I cleared my throat. "I say, Holmes… However did you know it was this crate? I can't see anything significant on the outside. It looks just like all the others."

He gave me a look that let me know he knew full well what I was doing. I shrugged. Truly, I couldn't see anything that made this box any different from the others.

"I am very glad you made that comment, Watson." He gestured to another stack of crates close by but towards the edge of the light. These held- I squinted to read- regular metal door handles of a simpler design. "Winston produces many wares here, but his Milestone line is considered a luxury good. Observe the packing straw."

I did see it now. The regular handles had been packaged with less care. Bits of straw stuck out below the lid here and there, but the Milestone crates had been packed in such a way that none were visible.

"That was clever of him." I said at last. "I'll be frank Holmes, I didn't see it."

He snorted. "Neither did I. And I would've been here until dawn if not for your timely arrival."

"Well the leed was en sale, Holmes, I could hardly leave you to it."

Holmes gave me the look I deserved.

**A/N: So for those wondering I wrote "Suspect hid loot inside" in cursive with decreasing legibility until I could piece out an alternative message.**


	5. Day 5

**From Book girl fan: a crossover of your choice**

**Spoilers for Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World**

As I had, essentially, been tied to the Surgeon's hip for most of the fighting I did not see the problem at first. How could I have, when the one occasion I took to sneak out from that pit of blood and sand I had been knocked out cold? They had warned of flying debris. Of course, as the ship may be struck anywhere by the enemy, I had thought no place less safe than the next. Watson had told me later that was part of why the Captain had insisted I stay below. He had said I possessed 'Maturin's head for nautical affairs', which I had mistaken for a compliment based upon my knowledge of the doctor's accomplishments as a naturalist. It was a genius peculiar to affairs on land. I lay in the hammock for a long while nursing my regrets as Watson aided his peer during the battle.

The Acheron's Captain was dead. This I had heard from Aubrey himself, who had joined in the final push on the decks of the French ship. He had brought back the other Captain's sword, and everyone on the Surprise seemed glad for it. I confess that Aubrey's assessment of my knowledge may have been correct. I was also, however, thoroughly concussed.

When Watson was not helping Doctor Maturin with amputations and the like, he was recounting stories of the battle, tales of Aubrey's previous adventures, and introducing me to various persons who wished to see the recuperating curiosity. Apparently, Captain Aubrey had some time to visit while I was out. He and Watson had exchanged tales, swapping their own equivalent fishing stories. I was dead to the world. What periods of wakefulness I did have were curtailed by some medicines so vile they even made Watson flinch.

And despite all of this, I recovered. For a while Mister Blakeney, a young Midshipman and recent amputee, acted as my guide while the ship was being cleared and repaired. It seemed that a majority of the prisoners of the Acheron would stay here, while a fair number of Surprises would go over to supplement Acting-Captain Pullings' newly minted crew.

Blankeney deemed it necessary to periodically remind me of all that had happened. He had recounted the tale of the Captain's victory to me twice this morning. While I did not wish to be rude, I was running out of patience.

"Forgive me, Mister Blakeney-" I interrupted his telling of the chase around the Galapagos, which I had been present for, "But could you tell me where Doctor Watson is? I have a desire to discuss our business with him and Doctor Maturin now that the bulk of the excitement is completed."

His expression became transparently patient. I have no doubt he learned the look from Watson. "You've forgotten again, Mister Holmes, but he's gone over to the Acheron to help."

"Rubbish. I would have told him not to go."

"You did protest, strongly, Mister Holmes." Doctor Maturin must have heard my racket and deigned to reappear. "You told him you were against it, in the strongest terms, and that you had French cousins you wished him never to meet."

"I don't remember this. I would not have let him go without further discussion."

Now Maturin was giving me that infuriating look. "You intended to, Mister Holmes, but as you followed Doctor Watson from the surgery you neglected to duck sufficiently to avoid a low beam."

While that sounded very plausible I scowled anyway. Maturin and I had developed some rapport over the weeks we had been sailing. There were dubious layers of bureaucracy to our official story and his. And Mycroft was known to him as some of his… associates were known to me. It was determined that the less we spoke of professional matters, the better. Still, he did not need to condescend to me so.

"Well, how long has Watson been gone? And how long is he expected away? With the Acheron captured, there are some formalities that need to be attended to." Namely, as Maturin and I both knew, determining if Moriarty's spy still lived. The moment he had turned his mathematical mind to the machinations of War, Mycroft and I had been busy. The Acheron had been another piece to the puzzle.

The frown he affixed me with was hardly a better expression. "He has been gone about a day and a half, and will be until we meet the Acheron in port. He was reluctant to leave you, but with myself still onboard and the Acheron's surgeon dead for some months-"

"No, Doctor, he wasn't dead!" Blakeney spoke up quickly. "He was the one who presented Captain Aubrey with the sword. The Captain was lying dead on his table and he handed it over with all ceremony."

I had seen Maturin pale from blood-loss before on our voyage. At this statement, his coloring outdid itself. I was sure my face was blanched to match.

"We must tell the Captain." I rolled from my hammock with more speed than was wise, but as the deck tilted no more than it had in a storm I was able to keep my feet. Maturin was already on the stairs ahead of me. I had felt something was off about the story for some time, but my thoughts were scattered. I should rethink my response were Mycroft ever to engage me on a voyage such as this again.

We found Captain Aubrey with his bandaged ear up on the quarterdeck. He was watching the repairs with the relaxed stance of a man who was satisfied with the state of things. I was not satisfied, and swayed angrily up the stairs. For once, I was grateful for the relaxed state of dress on a Naval voyage. Apart from Sundays, even a gentleman was not always expected to mind the state of his cravat or waistcoat. It was disgustingly hot. Watson was in mortal peril. Anyone overly concerned should be glad of our attempt.

"What's this? Our passenger out of bed at last! Perhaps you could tell us something of our French prisoners." Captain Aubrey grinned broadly at us. "You can read a man as well as Doctor Maturin reads his reptiles. Perhaps these Acherons know more than we do about the state of things in the Pacific."

"Captain Aubrey," Maturin began with a little formality to get his attention. "I take no pleasure in informing you that we are the victim of one of your best tricks."

Aubrey's glee evaporated. "You don't mean to say that was not the Acheron at all, but another ship?"

"No, though you are not far from the mark. It was indeed the Acheron, but that was not her surgeon."

We all know the sailors can turn a phrase, but even I was shocked by the oaths pouring from Captain Aubrey's mouth. The Captain of the Acheron had pulled one over on all of us. Now, Watson, Pullings, and all the volunteer hands were in mortal peril. The alarm was sounded and all hands got ready to mount a chase.

I will admit again to my weakness. There was more sway than the sea in my footsteps and Doctor Maturin had to help me back down to my berth. He offered me pain relief in the way of opium, but I declined. I needed to fight through this new obstacle with all my wits about me. Watson was at best a civilian and at worst a diplomat in the eyes of the French. He had no talent for espionage, but would be so loyally tight-lipped as to raise their suspicions. His gentleman's education did him no favors as well. I feared his modest command of French would be enough…

Maturin was kind enough to sit by my hammock as often as he could during those three long days of chase. I was in want for data and occupied by a sudden bout of fever which depleted my mental faculties. When I was well enough to converse, we spent the time talking of past exploits and the barest of news for our respective handlers. With so many French aboard, it was not yet safe to talk business.

I would have much preferred to speak in the Galapagos. There was no one there save ourselves and the cormorants and the iguanas. Alas, rough seas had kept Watson and I out of the action and an ill-timed sleeping draught meant Maturin had to perform his surgery himself. I would not think any of the Surprises so careless as to fire live rounds on deck with people about. From what I gathered, the events unfolded in a somewhat understandable manner. Maturin's forgiveness might yet be withheld, but he survived the wound with a host of motherly sailors to watch his every step.

It seemed we would have no chance to speak of the French and our agents until this business with the Acheron was settled. I had hoped to discuss Moriarty, and what was known of him to Napoleon. Unfortunately, this had largely been a voyage of us spies licking our wounds while the military men did the necessary swashbuckling.

"Jack has a temper to be sure." Matruin said in the evening while he attended my stitches. "I have no doubt we will catch them. If they should take the Acheron before we arrive, we will have her back."

"They may not dare try it with so many of yours onboard." I winced as some of the spirits touched opened skin. "I would bide my time until we found a port and then try to escape with my skin."

"But we are not naval captains, my friend." Maturin stopped the bottle. "Theirs is a world of prize money and glory. We may both fight for liberty and justice, but to many of them a noble death is preferable to running and fighting another day."

I did not imagine- then- I could give my life for such a cause and in such a way. To go to my death in order to vanquish a single enemy? Those were early days yet, and I had not learned all of what was out there to fear.

The ship rocked another night and day and night again before they poured the sand upon the floor once more. That was my cue. Provided that they weren't falsely flying our colors, the Acheron was still a friendly ship and I would be allowed on deck. Everyone was taking their precautions still. The men were anxious and wary. Captain Aubrey stalked the quarterdeck and I made sure to stand out of the way.

The Acheron responded to our hail. By all appearances, everything was fine. I fought the last vestiges of fever and the hazy nightmares it kept conjuring. They could have thrown the crew overboard days ago; we would be none the wiser. Too late in noticing, we might arrive minutes after a bloodbath. Maturin's fury over our abrupt departure from the islands was overshadowed by our three-fold rage at the deception.

At long last the Surprise pulled alongside her prize and Thomas Pullings met us at the side.

"Hello, Surprise. Captain Aubrey." The Acting-Captain had done his best to get the ship presentable with short notice, but we had caught him off-guard. "Is something amiss?"

"Indeed there is, but not with you and yours, Tom." Aubrey brushed right past formality and I followed him with Maturin close behind. "We've got an imposter, a - French trick. Where is the Acheron's Surgeon?"

Something flitted over Pullings' face. "You're to see Doctor Watson at once. He can clear all of this up."

My jaw clenched and we followed him all the quicker. Pullings led us down to the Sickbay. There, I was relieved to find Watson not in any kind of distress, but bandaging a sailor's arm with complete ease.

"Watson!" We stopped and he stood abruptly.

"Holmes! Captain Aubrey, Doctor Maturin, what are you all doing here? Don't tell me we've turned around?"

Aubrey remained alert, as his chief fears had not just been assuaged. "Where is that French surgeon? He is the Captain of the Acheron and a pudding liver at that!"

While we tried to absorb this, Maturin murmured, "It is either 'pudding heart' or 'white liver' as I have heard it said."

"- your euphorisms, Stephen, there's something to be done about him, whatever species of coward he is!"

Watson cleared his throat. "If you're referring to the blackguard who attempted to pass himself off as a medical man, he has been in the brig for three days."

We all stopped to stare at Watson. He and Pullings were sharing a creeping smile. I suspected that things on the Acheron were not are dire as we had feared.

"Oh, it was a clever trick until we had to press him into service." Watson gave us a triumphant grin. "I saw through his act the moment he stepped up to the table. If that man was supposed to be a surgeon, then I am one of Maturin's flightless birds."

All was silent in the Sickbay until Aubrey broke into a laugh. It was boisterous and infectious,and soon we were all enjoying the Frenchman's poor luck and our needless panic. Watson dismissed his patient with a smile before I moved to his side. This voyage had been fraught with peril since Brazil, and I was heartily glad to be returning. Perhaps this was an atypical mission and another tour with 'Lucky Jack' Aubrey and his crew would be less eventful.

No, I thought as the deck rolled under my feet, I think I will confine my future adventures to land.

**THAT WAS HOW MANY WORDS? oh no**


	6. Day 6

**From mrspencil: An Unexpected Journey**

**A/N: aight I know M&C is a tough act to follow but with a prompt like this how could I NOT**

The knocking at the door to the smial was insistent. Now it was quite beyond curiosity- necessity drove the occupant to answer.

"Yes, yes, you will have me out before you beat down my door Gandalf the Grey! Though I am surprised Mrs. Hudson has not chased you off with her pitchfork after what you did to her gardenias."

Behind the door was a strange creature. While on the tall and thin side for a Hobbit, he was undoubtedly a member of that race as evidenced by his feet and distress for garden plants. He had a sharp nose and searching eyes that narrowed as he peered at Gandalf.

"Very rude to show up unannounced, sir. Hardly proper, you know, especially when you could've written from that Inn in Bree. Let me see… The Prancing Pony, without a doubt. Some inconsiderate lout spilled their brew upon your cloak. And you've been roaming too! How far and wide your travels of late-"

"Are we to stand at the door all afternoon, or do hobbits of the Shire not invite their guests inside anymore?"

The hobbit blinked. "Dear me. 'We'? 'Guests'? Gandalf, who have you brought? Not another poor Baggins I hope."

Gandalf rolled his eyes and ducked through the doorway. He left a befuddled hobbit in his wake, staring at the figure who had been previously obscured. The hobbit blinked.

"You were there at Azanulbizar, I perceive."

The Dwarf on the doormat started before leveling the hobbit with a cool look. Dwarrow, as everyone knew, were not a trusting race. No doubt he would react poorly to the stranger up and asking his business without preamble.

"How did you know that?" He asked with the expected reservation. Like most on the road, he carried with him an assortment of weapons. The most innocuous of which looked to be a carved walking stick, but it also looked like a weapon oft used.

The hobbit smiled. "Never mind," said he, "Do come in, I was about to sit down for tea. Tell me, do you have an aversion to honey? I find it sweetens as well as any sugar cube and is easier to obtain myself."

With a sweeping gesture, the hobbit invited him in. "I apologize for my abrupt greeting. Sherlock Hornblower, at your service." He closed the door behind him quickly, glancing out the side window to see if his neighbors were particularly nosy today.

His guest bowed in turn and introduced himself. "I am Votsăn, son of Hănnar, at your service and your family's."

"Excellent, excellent. Well, Master Votsăn, have a seat and we shall see what dark mischief Gandlaf has in store for us. Other than the odd business near Hobbiton a year or so back, it is unusual to find wandering Dwarrow in the Shire. I would advise you to keep better company if you mean to stick around." He shot Gandalf a wry look. "This one is a known troublemaker and disturber of the peace."

"Troublemaker indeed!" Gandalf had already seated himself by the fireplace in a large armchair. It was far too large for their host, so it could only be assumed that it was kept for company. But what kind of odd company that the otherwise respectable looking hobbit could keep was anyone's guess.

Gandalf lit his pipe and grinned into his beard. "My conduct is always respectable, Mister Hornblower. But, I seem to recall a tween that set about baffling Tuckborough with bulletins detailing the personal affairs of society hobbits... I don't think they ever caught him."

At this the host flushed. "Yes, well. As it came out they had all done some manner of misdemeanor. All settled by the Shirriffs if you must know!"

Votsăn was unable to contain himself and laughed outright at the proclamation. His beard shook and he sat down heavily in one of the table chairs.

"So the tales are true! I have heard of the cunning and sneakiness of Hobbits, but my word! You must have keen ears for news indeed to know of our coming. And how ever did you know the battles I have fought? Has that spread along the grapevine?"

Hornblower grew even more indignant. "A gossip! I draw the line at slander, sir! All I know of you and your history- a veteran of the War of Orcs and Dwarves, not of the party into Erebor and late of the Blue Mountains where you have been working as a healer and mason- I learned from observation!" His lips were drawn thin and he seemed more affronted than anything else.

"I meant no offense, sir." Votsăn said quickly. "You are quite correct on all points."

"Oh." The host cooled a little. "I apologize for my outburst."

"It's perfectly understandable." Votsăn nodded. "If it is not offensive, I wish to know how you… observed those things about me just now."

"Of course, of course Master Votsăn. I will explain. It's no great magic or mystery. Why, I can almost guarantee you will say something like 'how absurdly simple' once I've finished.

There was a twinkle in Gandalf's eye as he sat back with his pipe. Perhaps a Tookish Hornblower and a wandering ex-solider were just the pair for the job. After all, there was much in the world he had seen, but not enough observed. There were portents of things to come, and many questions that should be answered. Now, more urgently than ever.

Bilbo Baggins had found a magic ring. But what an intriguing problem it would be to track from whence it came.

**A/N: so I MAY have researched not only Icelandic poetry but also Norse naming conventions and Tolkien history to uh write this **


	7. Day 7

**A/N: I saw the prompt and had two immediate reactions: 'Oh no' and 'Wait' ; )**

**Welcome to the barely-researched thrill ride**

**Michael JG Meathook: When Queen Victoria dies, it comes to light that none other than Sherlock Holmes is the rightful heir to the throne.**

"Really, Holmes, this is too much!"

He was flitting about our rooms in Baker Street, doing his best to tear the bookshelves to pieces. I had learned not to stand idly by while there was a whirlwind in progress, so I followed behind and tried to pick up discarded papers as I went. They would all be easier organized after the fact. I only bemoaned the time it would take to redo what he was rapidly undoing, and how much time would be wasted. All this over a paper he'd burned immediately after reading.

"I can only hope it is enough, Watson!" He yelled back. What a cryptic way he had, always turning a phrase on a dime yet rolling his eyes when I did the same. Next time, I should threaten to use it in a manuscript. Perhaps he would think twice about belittling my 'florid language'.

Now, it almost looked like he was tossing books at random. If he was striving to make a mess of the place for the mess' sake, I could always sock him across the jaw and let the subsequent brawl do the rest.

"What do you propose to gain by this exercise, Holmes?"

"This!" He snatched a thin journal from the middle of a stacked pile and sent the whole thing toppling. Of course he would finish his task the moment he'd been called upon to explain. "It is a meticulous copy of a politician's schedule, before you ask."

"What if I wanted to ask why you needed it?"

Holmes flicked a dark look my way but it deflected. "I need one of the Irregulars to pick his pocket and borrow his watch. This is the schedule of his habits put together by careful observation and planning."

"I say Holmes! Amazing! But whatever shall we accomplish by this?"

He nearly threw the book at me. "This is no time for your condescension, Watson!" For the first time in this chaos, his mask slipped. I heard the panic in his voice. "This is an emergency!"

I rounded the coffee table and tried to get him to look me in the eye. "Holmes… You know whatever it is, you can trust me."

He turned away from me fully. I felt my heart begin to sink before I saw his shoulders tense. He flung the book to the ground and hurried toward the window. Bewildered, I followed him. He was peering intently at something in the street, but before I could get a glimpse he spun around and herded me away.

"Watson. Watson, you have said I can trust you." He ran a hand through his hair, more unnerved than I had ever seen him. I would dare to say that not even during the Moriarty case had he looked so… afraid.

"You can. With anything, Holmes." He didn't continue immediately so I attempted to lighten the mood. "Well, anything short of regicide I suppose. I am a reasonable citizen."

His reaction was the opposite of what I had intended. With a strangled sort of laugh, he pulled me over to the armchair and without any warning pushed me into it. I fell to the cushion in shock as Holmes continued to stalk the room. First, he tore through the closet until he found some articles of luggage I had never seen him use before. After that he selected a few more volumes from the bookshelf and set them all aside. Finally he rifled through my writing desk.

I had long since begun to worry for him before he took out my revolver. Whatever danger there was to him was present enough to arm for. Each action seemed to be executed with less and less planning as he went. Holmes astonished me again by hurrying over and pushing the gun into my hands.

"Hide this on you, Watson. You must-" There was a noise downstairs, and he flinched violently. I am afraid to say my mouth fell open in shock at his reaction. Holmes shook himself and gestured again to the gun. "A gentleman will come up the stairs. He will ask for me, Watson and- If you value my life you must make him believe you are me long enough to lock him in the closet at gunpoint."

The front door closed downstairs and Holmes finally met my eye. I had seen him manic, drugged, out of his mind from using substances of his own creation… So earnest and afraid was the expression on his face that I took the revolver without question. The next man through that door could be Mycroft Holmes himself and I would attempt to do as asked.

"I will do it. I know you have little faith in me as an actor-"

"I have every faith." He hissed. "I must." I took it the affirmation was more for his own mind than a statement of true conviction. He all but fled the room when he heard the steps on the stairs. This truly was a matter of life and death, and the responsibility lay at my feet.

I felt a cold wave of resolve wash over me as I calmly sat back and took up the newspaper. My brow furrowed and deepened into a scowl as I listened to our visitor's footsteps up the final stairs. He knocked.

"Enter." I said, prepared for battle.

The man himself looked nothing like the sort of ruffian I had steeled myself for. He was average height, average build, and dressed in the sort of suit one would find nearer to Whitehall- The politician's schedule! There must be some intrigue in the government, perhaps some sort of dangerous spy ring that Holmes feared-

Unfortunately, my expression had not shifted from defensive anger when he entered, and my reticence to begin the conversation left him time to observe.

"So you've heard the news, somehow." He said with a humorless smile. If he was going to make assumptions, I was going to let him do the heavy lifting of the deception for me. "I wondered if Mycroft would do this all above board, but I can't really fault him for trying. Especially seeing as how he has failed."

He rounded the edge of the settee and sat down in a far more leisurely manner than I liked. "If you're scouring the papers for some sign, you won't find it. As per the agreement, you were given a week in light of your service and your mother's wishes but, well…" He spread his hands in a gesture I found condescending in the extreme. "I can see how you've squandered that. Really, I did not think it would be so easy to catch you. You had six and a half more days but we caught you in your own flat on the first. I should think a sensible man would have run the moment the starting gun went off."

I could not even begin to conceive of his allusions, but I knew the part I had to play. The less I said, the better. After all, I did not know what this man knew of Holmes, only that he did not know his face. "And what will you do now? You can't think I will simply go with you."

"But you must! You really must, Mister Holmes. Whether I should call you that at all remains to be seen, of course." For a moment, my blood froze in my veins, but he plowed on, "It really was a very generous agreement. Seven days to make your grand escape and we would continue as the public expected us to."

"It hardly seems so to me." I said. I knew Holmes would want information. It would be prudent, I thought, to try and coax as much out of our mysterious visitor as I could before things took a turn. No doubt Holmes was listening from upstairs. Hopefully he could make more sense of this than I could at present.

Now our visitor scoffed. "So your telegram was intercepted- delayed, I should say until someone qualified could be found to give chase. Myself, if you hadn't determined that yet. I am a House favorite and widely considered a very persuasive man. Surely you see the logic in giving up. After all-" At this he stood and advanced towards me. "All I have to do is lay a hand upon you and the game is up."

I bared my teeth in a grin as I prepared to give this modern-day touchstaff what for. I drew up my revolver from behind my newspaper and pointed it squarely between his eyes.

"You will do no such thing. I consider myself a reasonable man, but if you do not do as I say I shall be forced to do the unreasonable."

His eyebrow twitched. "Surely gunplay indoors would only alert the neighbors-"

I laughed. "On this street? They should flock to our door if I have gone a week without some sort of explosion." At the last moment I remembered I was supposed to be Holmes, and alone in the flat. I could only hope my brief slip hadn't alerted him.

Our visitor began to back towards the door. "What are you going to do, throw me out? I could have the house surrounded in minutes. You won't get out that way. My driver has been instructed to wait for me. If you throw me out, I shall bring him up and we will leave with you!"

Very interesting indeed. I cocked my head to one side, watching him. "Will he wait for you to conclude this appointment?"

The man rolled his eyes. "If he's worth keeping on- and he is, or he had better be for what we pay- then he will stay if it takes me all night running around this sitting room to get you to give up. I'm persistent, Mister Holmes. That is why I was chosen."

"Well!" I declared with a laugh. "I am obstinate! That is why I must refuse. Now, into that closet, sir or I shall have to ruin that suit of yours with some additional button-holes."

He complied, but backed to the closet sneering all the way. "You'll have my driver to contend with, Holmes! He's authorized as well. I daresay he might just throw you into the cab without preamble if-"

Once he was inside I slammed the door, turned the key, and threw it somewhere into the mess of books. "Holmes," I called up the stairs with a measure of satisfaction, "It's safe to come down now."

There was an insistent thrashing in the closet but I paid it no mind. My friend appeared with his odd suitcase and my own, looking far less pale and deathly than he had.

"You have done it! Oh my dear Watson, you have saved my life!" He dropped the luggage and clapped me on the shoulder warmly. "What a superb performance! All the better they sent this glorified errand-boy to do their bidding. We may make it out of this yet!"

"I did not do so much, Holmes." I was still astonished at the strangeness of it all. "And while I know you will explain it in your own time, I should very much like to know what the blazes is going on here."

His moods seemed more volatile now. The danger had not gone and he barked out a laugh. "Good old Watson! Yes, I should not save the tale for the end. Not this time. It is very much a matter of life and death. Please-" He bent to pick up my suitcase and handed it over. "If there is anything that I missed you must pack it at once. I ask that you not mention specifics because of our present company." He nodded his head towards the closet. Our visitor had ceased his struggles with the door and sat back to listen.

"In light of this, I will tell you now all that we both know while you pack." Holmes began rooting through my desk for whatever he considered travel essentials to be. "I know very little, but the facts were set before me by a letter from my- from Mycroft this morning. Not a telegram."

He trailed off momentarily as he examined some papers in the desk before throwing them aside. "Seven days, Watson- essentials only. Where was I- the letter! Yes, well, it may shock you… Watson, humor me a moment and have a seat while you pack."

I had busied myself reorganizing Holmes' slapdash job and assented to his request. Holmes cleared his throat again and shot me an apologetic look.

"The Queen is dead, to begin with."

He was right to have me sit. I dropped the shoe I was holding and did not have the presence of mind to be grateful it wasn't a more fragile object. "Dead?" I asked at last.

"Yes, Watson. I do not wish to be insensitive, but please continue with your luggage. We must hurry. You might be wondering how I should come to know before the public and the answer is: Mycroft. In his letter he explained certain circumstances that are unfolding due to our Queen's recent departure."

"Circumstances surrounding you and wherever this man wishes to take you."

"Precisely, Watson. I will ask you to suspend your disbelief if only for the sake of time. All further questions must be held until we are at a safer location." He paused. "I swear to you I will answer every one, immediately, as I am able. Only wait until we are far from London to ask them."

Holmes was not often forthcoming with answers such as these. I took him at his word and closed my luggage. "The very basics now, Holmes. That is all I will need."

He gave me a small smile and tossed my doctor's bag over. "Then the basics: I have seven days to evade the capture of any number of special government agents appointed to this task. If I should fail, Watson, I will be forced to return and assume the throne."

Had he not just sworn me to patience I would have had some things to say. As such, I clenched my jaw shut and continued with my bag.

"Mycroft outlined the scheme briefly. I was raised as his brother all my life due to circumstances I do not fully understand. He left me with only the most essential, as I am trying to do now. What matters is, her Majesty Queen Victoria saw the life I was leading- had created myself- and found it in her heart to decree me an out. If I can avoid capture for seven days, the man the public knows as the heir to the throne will ascend, and I will continue to live in my own way."

This was an incredible amount of information to absorb all at once. My world had just been turned on its ear. Sherlock Holmes- not a Holmes at all- England's heir? But I had no time to think. In this moment, we needed action.

"You have a plan, then?" I found my coat and hat quickly. Holmes was putting the final touches on a fast disguise. As a final measure, I slid a chair under the doorknob to the closet. We would need all the time we could get.

"Of course, Watson." Some sort of elderly gentleman looked back at me with Holmes' luggage in hand. "Now, we must quietly alert Mrs. Hudson and all will be well. Just follow my lead."

We hurried down the stairs and met our landlady at the base. No doubt she had heard our commotion and came to hear us out.

"Mrs. Hudson, I cannot explain. Suffice to say it is a matter of life and death. We will be gone a week, and in that time any number of men will come to call. Admit none of them, and only release our prisoner upstairs if you find it prudent. It does not matter much to me."

Our landlady took the strangeness with much more ease than I had. "Very well, Mister Holmes. Am I to treat you as strangers as you leave?"

A broad grin split his face. "You are simply wonderful! Yes, Mrs. Hudson, we are clients running over on Mister Holmes' next appointment." He gestured upstairs with a nod of his head. "He might be a while, if anyone comes looking."

"Mind yourselves out there, gentlemen." Mrs. Hudson, amazing woman that she is, escorted us to the door without an outward sign of affection. I found it in her eyes, and nodded to her once as she showed us out.

"Oh and Madam," Holmes had adopted a false voice on the step. I noticed the coach driver observing us and maintained my focus on the door. "Once Mister Holmes is free, do tell him I shall come by again. Terribly sorry to interrupt his other appointment."

With that, we departed. I felt a giddy sort of adrenaline as the driver did not pay our travel gear so much as a second glance. We were going to get away with it! Perhaps- The enormity of what this meant hadn't yet settled on me. It was another game. Another mad chase through the streets of London.

"What say you we make a point with this, Watson?" Holmes said as he flagged down a cab. "I could do with a long holiday. Why let them chase us from our rooms only a week? Perhaps we shall show them just what we're capable of."

"I have no objections. Though my wardrobe might."

He snorted. "Rubbish, Watson. It will be alright and if all goes well…" I saw his true expression under his disguise. Wistfulness, and dare I say hope. "In seven days, everything will be right with the world."

**A/N: much like Holmes in his sitting room I tore through this in a frenzy and wrote it all in one go so WAIT IT'S 3K WHAT THE HECK  
**


	8. Day 8

**Hades Lord of the Dead: Heart of gold**

Warnings: implied violence towards the very end? nothing graphic, implications aren't of the T-rated sort but i wanted to be sure

The rain continued to pelt the walls and windows of the country church. Most of the village of Fane's Landing was huddled amongst the pews, safe from the storm and threat of flood. While intentional the location must be, I doubted the architects of the chapel had foreseen the hill as a sanctuary from nature.

I helped the Reverend Atchley to pass out blankets and assisted some of the local church wives in distributing tea. Holmes had told me in no uncertain terms to stay and guard the people. I was the last line of defense as it were. Holmes only had to collect the Widow Barrister and her child for our number to be complete.

I strongly suspected he knew the identity of the murderer already. Well, would-be murderer I should say. We had been contacted by a Mister Henry Lawson about some strange goings on around Fane's Lansing. In addition to strange sounds on the lake at night, things were going missing and reappearing destroyed in some other part of town. Cart wheels, spindles, and even brooms had been victims of what the locals were starting to call 'the Landing Creature'.

I did not care much for the name. It was not descriptive and held a connotation of confusion more than anything else. What kind of creature was it? What did it look like? None of the villagers could agree on this point either. A reputable farmer had reported it to be an upright sort of beast more like a man, while another said it had the legs of a goat but the upper half of a spider. None of the accounts made the least bit of sense.

Of course Holmes had taken to the case like a duck to water. He had led the way to question subjects despite the drizzle and all signs of the downpour now upon us. And, he had run off after one of four suspects alone. Leaving me here to comfort a crying infant while the mother looked after three more.

"You've got a heart of gold, Doctor Watson." Reverend Atchley offered me a cup of tea. "Tending to my neighbors as if they were your own- patiently aiding us in finding shelter. We appreciate you and Mister Holmes more than you could know."

I smiled as warmly as I could muster with a baby tugging on my mustache. "I am no saint, Reverend. We are simply here to see justice done and hopefully leave the village without too much damage."

"Ah." The Reverend's face fell slightly at the reminder of impending doom. "No one would fault you, Doctor, should your friend's stopgap measures fail. We were not expecting such an early downpour as it was. If the dam is to break, then at least you were here to give us enough time. And I have every faith the saboteur will be caught."

It was good of him to say, but with Holmes still out there chasing our suspects, I was worried. "Since we're all safe for the time being, I would ask for your assistance." The Reverend smiled and reached out to take the child from my arms. I acquiesced readily enough, though that was not the matter I had in mind.

"Thank you, Revered, but I had a question." He made no move to give back the baby and inwardly I sighed with relief. "Holmes is looking into the Miller, Arnold Lawson the cousin of Mister Henry, Geoffrey Billings the footman at the hill estate, and Doctor Einhouse. I'm not familiar with their faces, but the one who is not present is our man."

The Reverend frowned and looked about the room. "Then I should hope Mister Holmes knows what he is doing." He lowered his voice. "All four you named are in this very room."

I doubted I kept the shock from my face. All four? Then that either meant Holmes was wrong or-

Or he was baiting a different trap. Without telling me. He had said the saboteur was after something that flooding the village would help him gain. I began to reexamine the facts as I knew them and a troubling pattern began to form. Holmes said he was after the last suspect, but he had also said he was going to get Mrs. Barrister. Could she be the one? I didn't seriously consider the sweet-faced young widow to be capable of such a thing. Of course a woman would be capable of stealing and dismantling the wooden furniture to build a device that would undermine the dam's integrity. A woman could also trigger the collapse at a crucial moment, such as now. I simply didn't believe she had the heart for it, or the motive.

After all, she lived in the potential flood zone. It hardly made sense to leave her for last. Unless… I hadn't met a good majority of these people before this evening, the Reverend Atchley included.

Suddenly, this spindly man made me very suspicious. His questions, his eagle eye on the room, his interest in the case- who was to say that wasn't Holmes in a clever disguise? He'd done so and fooled me before.

Unfortunately, my deductive skills never are quite up to snuff. No sooner had the Reverend started squirming under my observational glare than the door burst open. I was seated close enough as the guard to see the Widow Barrister stumble through. Behind her, Holmes was tying up a horse with one hand and holding a soaked bundle in the other.

I leapt up and hurried to Mrs. Barrister's side. She was weak from the journey and nearly fell, and as I helped steady her I found a bruise forming on one side of her face. Holmes trudged in with what I could only assume was young Abby Barrister swaddled in his Ulster.

"Watson, thank heaven!" He was absolutely drenched. It seemed he had gone on quite the adventure while I was here on guard. "We have the villain! You'll find Lord McKinsey of Backenhill Hall tied to that horse outside, though I daresay he will keep for the time being."

Reverend Atchley was hurried over, having emptied his arms to another sheltering villager. Holmes gladly passed on his present burden.

"Hello, dear Abby. And Mrs. Barrister- I say are you alright?"

She nodded, but still held to my arm for support. "I would not say 'well', but Abby and I are safe, thanks to Mister Holmes."

"I will see to you now, madam." I said. "It does not look so bad, but I should like to examine the wound under a light to make sure." And to check for a concussion. If she had not the strength to carry her child and had to rely on Holmes… "I am glad he caught the scoundrel. I take it the dam was part of some nefarious scheme? And the creature a distorted glimpse into his nighttime activities?"

Holmes was still breathing hard from the exertions of climbing the hillside. "Yes, quite. I believe he was threatening to flood the whole village with her in it unless she would consent to marry him. He has quite the contraption on the other side of the dam, but I doubt if he would have gotten far with it. Stolen spindles and wagon wheels could only hurt it so much. Even during a gale like this. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I am soaked to the bone as that… dear child is using my coat."

He sulked over to the parlor door, where many latecomers were making use of the Reverend's fireplace. I helped Mrs. Barrister over to one of the pews with a lantern. She showed no signs of concussion, but I would not be surprised if the bruise took several days to heal. Once she and young Abby were settled I left them to rest.

The Reverend had it half right- In the times he sought to use it, Holmes had the heart of gold. For a man so seemingly devoid of empathy, he had the mind of compassion to both carry a toddler and lead a horse for a mile in the pouring rain. I doubt he personally understood or felt Mrs. Barrister's pain, but he recognized her problem and did what he could.

That was the best and wisest man I knew. That was the man I called friend.

**A/N: mentally i kept singing the prompt to 'heart and soul' but that's not right that's not the way it goes-**


	9. Day 9

**A/N: i've found the source of the formatting errors: google docs! Solved! workaround after the story**

**Winter Winks 221:** _"Watson, this is not what I asked for."_

He looked back at me with that blasted put-upon expression of ignorance he knew would irritate me.

"By Jove, Holmes, you did ask me to bring Culverton Smith here this instant."

I scowled at him. "That I did however-"

"And- dear me do I remember it right- you insisted that I not use force, but convince him to come?"

"Really Watson, if you had done that then-"

"Oh, but I did Holmes!" There was a twinkle in his eye there, and something else. Something dangerous enough to silence me. For the explanation at least… "I do try to follow your instructions to the letter, though most times the fantastic culmination of events is beyond me. I was ever so careful to persuade him to come and then arrive back here before him like you asked." He narrowed his eyes and I felt decidedly uneasy.

"Where have I deviated from your directions, Holmes? What have I done that was contrary?"

I could not answer him and he knew it. By the letter if not the spirit had he obeyed exactly what I had asked. He had arrived before Smith, concealed himself behind the headboard, and listened to Culverton Smith break down at my bedside with a piteous plea for mercy. Gloating, I had expected. Taunts and jeers I had planned for. But the snivelling wreck of a man had so thrown me off my game that I nearly forgot my signal to Inspector Morton, to whom he confessed the murder separately.

Now I stood fuming, in my rouge and vaseline, as Watson fixed me with the most insidiously innocent look I have ever laid eyes on. "What did you tell him?"

"Why, the truth of course." He had dropped the act at my tone and met my glare with one of his own. "You did tell me that I have the ability not to lie, but to convince others of what I myself believe. So I told Smith that he had better hurry to your bedside and make amends for what he had done, that you had every evidence of his guilt, and that your death should have consequences that would haunt him to his grave if he did not make his peace."

I blinked, momentarily speechless. "And you say you were convinced of that? Explain."

"You said you suspected him of the murder of his nephew. Never have I known you to be wrong once you have committed far enough into a theory as to actually name the guilty party. If not physical evidence then the evidence of your own observations. I knew you wished to speak with him. Whether or not he had the means to cure you, I could only guess. However, I did not guess when I said the consequences of your death would haunt him."

I frowned. "How so?"

Here, Watson gave me a grin I hardly deserved. "If he tried and failed as an innocent man, the guilt of failure would haunt him. If he should willingly have withheld his aid… I would have taken the necessary steps."

It was unworthy a response to his reasoning, but I laughed. Of course Watson, being a devoted physician and seeker of justice himself, would enforce his oath on the coward Smith. He was not as amused as I, and took my reaction the wrong way.

"I suppose you would think this amusing, Holmes. This whole affair has been some… orchestration of yours. Why else would you be so irritated when the finale is derailed?"

My mirth faded on the moment. No indeed, he had it all wrong. "My dear Watson- Don't give me that look. If you will allow it I have an explanation that I can… only hope will prove satisfactory."

"An explanation that will excuse your allowing me to think you were on death's doorstep?"

I cleared my throat. Curse this necessary dehydration. "If you will believe me, it was to keep you- and I fear our-... my good landlady- from the same fate. It is true, you do not dissimulate well. And you came so very near to catastrophe when you picked up that ivory box-" I paused to clear my throat. These rooms were exceptionally dry for the time of year. "If Smith had any inkling that another besides myself knew the truth of his evil, I feared that he would strike with as little hesitation as he did against me."

It was Watson's turn to fall silent so I hastily continued. "My reaction when you picked up the box was very real. The reason I gave you was not."

"Ah." He said at last. "So we have had a narrow escape."

"Thankfully not too narrow, Watson. Though, I could not have asked for a neater resolution."

**A/N: ****ok so here's a hot tip if you're working in G Docs and have the dreaded Formatting issue: Copy+Paste into a new FFN doc, SAVE, then "edit" the document and PASTE AGAIN and this is important: Ctrl+A and select "Clear Formatting" which is the little ****Tx**** button. Save a life.**


	10. Day 10

**A/N: what are children best at? particularly scathing pranks.**

**Wordwielder: Snowman**

"They're making some sort of… they're making _you_ in the street, Holmes."

Holmes scoffed but made no real reply. He was in one of his moods, much acerbated by the heavy snowfall and lack of problems to put his mind to. I usually endeavored to shorten these black periods when I could, but there was a dearth of news for me to work with.

"Yes, as a matter of fact they've even got a burlap sack to serve as your new Inverness coat. A creative solution to the problem of identity for sure. And the height- they've managed to nearly match you by use of a lamppost and standing upon one another's shoulders."

I saw him twitch out of the corner of my eye. Sherlock Holmes may not present himself as a man of emotion, but I happened to know that pride was something he felt. Far be it from me to say the man had an ego, so I let his actions speak to it instead.

"Very clever lads. They've gone and done up the eyebrows in muddier snow. What a tremendous scowl on you, Holmes! I wonder what they shall do for a pipe."

"It is not a scowl on _me_, Watson." He stood with a glower that made the street sculpture rather uncanny. "And I have no time for such trivialities. Hopefully the weather will turn and it will be gone by morning."

I hummed noncommittally and continued to watch. "They have found a trowel, and based upon their looks I believe they mean to make a nose of it."

"Really, Watson!" He exploded. At least he was in a temper instead of a dangerous lethargy. "I see nothing funny about all this."

"Nor do I, Holmes, simply making observations." I kept a bland expression on my face and looked back out the window. "For instance, I don't know where they got their hands on that hat. Looks like one of yours."

He hurried to the window and shoved me aside. "That's because it is the _genuine article-!"_ His voice rose in outrage and he made a dash for the sitting room door. "Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson, what has been done with my hat!"

I heard thundering steps on the stairs and a moment later the door slammed. Soon, Holmes was in the street, attempting to retrieve his personal effects as the children laughed and skipped around him. It all seemed great fun until one of them scooped up a snowball and flung it at my unsuspecting friend. The child's aim was true. Snow covered the back of Holmes' neck and the entire street came to a standstill.

I began to fear for the child in question as Holmes made a slow about-face. His expression was completely blank. I was about to head downstairs to prevent a murder when he stooped and began gathering snow in his own gloved hands. The children scattered, shrieking with delight and arming themselves for the coming onslaught.

The street soon became a cheery warzone, the casualties laughing and innumerable. Next time I'll bear in mind that all it took to rouse Holmes from the murky depths was a simple, caricature snowman.


	11. Day 11

**A/N: the shameless, self-satisfying fix-it I have wanted to write since forever**

**holdmycoat: An alternative reveal of the fact that Sherlock Holmes is not dead**

I have, in my published memoirs, set to the public a series of events surrounding the supposed death and resurrection of my friend Sherlock Holmes.

What I did not publish was the truth.

It is a dark truth. Few know the full story, but we who were there have shared our pieces. As was the official account, this is a tale of great deception. And while it has taken my heart some time to heal from those wounds in '91 and that second tragedy in '93, I cannot bare the truth without admitting this is also a story of intense concern, love, and friendship.

First, I will tell of the lies.

It was Holmes who lied first, as the public account goes. He led us all to believe he had gone over the Falls with Professor Moriarty. But I had told a falsehood before him. All was not well with me on our helter-skelter journey across Europe. It will not surprise the reader to learn that, with the shock of losing Holmes and the rough days we'd spent on the run, I fell dangerously ill before I could leave Merignen.

It was material evidence, they say, but the police could not pry Holmes' note from my hand.

I had contracted some devilish fever. The doctors, of course, were able to help but I was in no fit state to travel. I do not remember instructing them, but they were able to get in contact with Mycroft Holmes, who then sent my Mary. I do not remember her arrival either.

The third lie belongs to her.

Sometime in the throes of my fever, she was visited by a traveling Norwegian doctor, who had some expertise in those matters. The proceedings have sense been de-mystified, and went as follows.

"_Hallo_, Mrs. Watson. My name is Doctor Sigerson and I-"

"I know. Perfectly well who you are, Doctor. You are here about my husband."

"I only wish to help-"

"Rather late for that, is it not, _Doctor?"_

"There is much more to your husband's condition than he is able to tell you."

"He is not able to tell much. You know, he suffered a devastating blow just before. If this continues, it will kill him."

Sigerson was quiet a long while.

"My dear lady, by being here yourself you are in as much danger as I. From catching something, that is."

"You of all people should know the risks I am willing to take. Is my presence here not answer enough?"

"I cannot protect you from this malady that haunts us."

"But I can watch over him. I will, as you lack your usual nurse, until you hunt down the cure."

"And if you should fall as well… No, Mrs. Watson, that is not an acceptable risk."

"I will take precautions as you have done. If I show signs of catching, I will seek out a good apothecary of my acquaintance."

"If he loses his doctor and then his wife… Men are only so strong, my good lady."

For the first time since Sigerson entered the room, she smiled. "Then his doctor will have to come back. Should the wife be in exile, she can then be sent for."

"You have family abroad?"

"America. A cousin, and if I am to be… bereaved, English governesses are in high demand there."

Sigerson's voice dropped to a whisper. "Truly you are a brave woman, Mrs. Watson. To go to such lengths for a husband may be your duty, but for his friend-...Yours, I fear, would be a harder revival to explain."

She continued to smile grimly. "I owe them both a debt, Doctor Sigerson. One I would pay with any sacrifice. If I am to depart as my husband's dear friend has done, I am sure after a time he may find another wandering governess… One like myself, perhaps. If his heart is still able to love-"

Sigerson laid a hand on her shoulder. "He will survive this, Mrs. Watson. I should not fear for him. It may not come to that, but should it… Think of his friends. Is he one to recover? To… forgive?"

Amidst the lies, the truth was having its way out.

I was not yet well when I was sufficiently recovered to travel. Mary stayed by my side, giving me news, reading me letters and telegrams from the Diogenes. We received a personal visit from Mycroft, and he and Mary got along better than I had imagined they would. But those were dark days, and darker ones still were yet to come.

My wife received some news by telegram that left her pale, though she would not speak to me of it. On the tail end of a string of bad days, Mary began complaining of chest pains. They were infrequent, of course, and I could find nothing wrong…

It was a visit I wish I could have made with her. The cousin I had not met sent back her ashes. Her wishes.

Not three months later was I dragged by the sleeve into a dusty bookshop. The shop owner was unpleasant enough as to drive off the existing customers. Alas, I had offered to carry his books since I had been careless enough to bump into him. The last of these volumes went in the very back of the store, behind a long row of encyclopedias.

There, I met a ghost.

Sebastian Moran is, I fear, given more credit than he is due. I have heard him compared to myself as a kind of foil. Moriarty's Watson, some have said. I would argue against that. To be a true mirror, I would have had to make him suffer much more. He possessed no more brilliance than any clever gambler. He thrived by threats and minions and evil. No, we were opposites. Moran had the vestiges of his gang, his status. Moriarty had left him untouched.

Because of him, I had lost the people I held most dear.

Yet, where Moran came out the loser in this affair… Holmes had said once that marriage seemed to be my natural state or some such thing. I did find love again. Some time after Holmes had scoured the earth, after he had wrenched every root from the ground and tossed them in a pile to burn, a governess arrived from America.

What a charming coincidence. Her name was Mary too.


	12. Day 12- should I give these funny names

**From cjnwriter: Years later, the locals called it "The Great Christmas Tree Farm heist of 1891". Are Watson's detective skills up to the challenge?**

A Nordmann fir was the primary suspect.

Mary and I had gone to visit a friend shortly before the Christmas Holiday in '91. It was to be the first Christmas after my dear friend Sherlock Homes' death and, as my wife tried to remind me, a safer Christmas for the absence of Professor Moriarty. We were endeavoring to spend our time away from town because of this. Mary had no objection to travel. In fact, she never rejected an opportunity for some fresh country air.

That being said, there was bad that came along with the good. Our hosts, Mister and Mrs. Hewitt, told us at breakfast one morning of a strange sequence of events.

"Quite odd." Mrs. Hewitt remarked. "That the Constable should have joked like that. Goodness knows Mrs. MacCready is telling enough stories of the 'little folk' and the fae and all that nonsense. He really ought to know better."

"Know better?" Mary asked politely. I could see the slightest scrunch of irritation on her brow, but otherwise she appeared in rapt attention. How one could stand such a roundabout way of storytelling I should never-

The sudden dark cloud that settled on me nearly obscured Mrs. Hewitt's response. "Why than to suggest the tree had been responsible! The gossip he will start for one thing… A Christmas tree robbing the Morton's house. What a fantastic idea, and impossible. Though Mrs. Morton did say she saw the tree hastening away into the darkness…"

"I'm sure it was the shock, dear. It would be impossible for a tree to hasten anywhere but to the ground." Mister Hewitt was no more of a conversationalist than his wife. "If it hadn't been for the missing tree at the Bentley house, the thing never would have occurred to her. It's all hysterics brought on by the other thefts, you know." I fear I had less patience than Mary did at that moment and made my excuses.

I sat on a stone bench in the garden. I was bundled to the ears, but the chill I felt was stronger within than without. How pretty a problem, and how fantastic a suspect. That the farmhouses should be burgled by a tree…

Holmes would have loved this.

I was not left long to my gloomy mood. Mary appeared in the garden similarly prepared for the weather. She joined me on the bench without a word, but helped melt some of the ice that had begun to settle inside. We sat there for a while, watching the frozen landscape. Dreary clouds filtered the sunlight, but things did not look so bleak as they had a while before.

"I should like to know how on earth one can add up all the evidence at the scene of a crime and come up with nothing better than a tree." I said at last. We were both curious as I well knew.

"With such a thickheaded Constable on the case, I can only imagine he thought of kin."

I laughed outright at that. Mary gave me a smile and looped her arm in mine. "I managed to pry it out of the Hewitts that the tree was only seen fleeing because the Mortons had been awoken by the sound of breaking glass. Mister Morton hurried downstairs while his wife went to the window. It was there, I suppose, that she must've seen the tree running away."

"That's the best time to see a tree, my dear. As it leaves."

_"John!"_

I laughed. "I know I have been insufferable of late. I take it that this wasn't the insight you had hoped for."

She tried to maintain a pouting expression as she stared back at me. In that moment I was again reminded of how much my life had improved since Mary had consented to be my wife. In these last months she had been my rock, my anchor… But before that, I had seen a change in myself beginning to take place. My association with Holmes had brought back my zest for life, but Mary had found a well of joy I did not know I possessed.

"We should catch the thief." Mary said suddenly. I turned to study her. While there was still mirth in her face, she was quite serious. "I think it would be a wonderful Christmas gift for those poor Mortons, and that unfortunate Constable. We could get a list of what was stolen…"

"Jewels perhaps? Silverware?"

"Why John, it was most certainly firs."

I dropped my head into my hands and listened to my wife's happy laughter.

That was how we found ourselves outside the farmhouse of one Arthur Hagey and his family late that night. We had told Farmer Hagey- lest we be shot- that we were going to have a look around. Mary reasoned that the Hageys were near neighbors and close enough to the treeline that any purloining pine would find it a nice target. She was wearing one of my coats and an old riding dress borrowed from Mrs. Hagey. The farmers were superstitious as they came, but elderly and with no desire to be the next victims. Proximity was the only thing they had in common with the other farmhouses, but of the town they seemed the next easiest targets.

We maintained our vigil out of the wind in the stables. Mary insisted she did not need any kind of light. It would alert the thieves. Still, we huddled close together and watched the house. We took turns drinking from as well-insulated a teapot as I had ever seen. The tea itself was little more than hot water, but we had our cups and our heat for our watch.

I was beginning to despair of a wasted night. Mary was growing irritated beside me, and I was sure we would both have devilish colds come morning. I bent to pour myself another cup of warm water when Mary stayed my hand. She pointed out the window towards the treeline. I peered out over the snow to find what she had seen. Soon enough, two figures broke from the forest and made their way to the house, one behind the other. They approached in a straight line right up to the front door. We watched in silence as they forced the lock and entered.

"We've got them, Mary." I whispered. "We should catch them in the act."

"Wait, John." She whispered. "They might race out the backdoor. We should chase them back to where they've hidden everything else."

It was a sound plan. I checked my coat pocket for my revolver. It was there, as it always was. Never so keenly had I felt Holmes' absence than I did in that moment. Here were Mary and I, on an investigation fit to intrigue my old friend. Neither of us had believed for a moment a tree had really walked, and were pursuing the case's logical course. I imagined he would have approved.

"How in the world will they get the tree down?" Mary murmured. "And to get it to appear as if it's moving on its own… We should have asked if there were needles on the stairs at the Bentley house."

"I fear the Constable should have laughed at us. Taken us for a pair of young thrillseekers."

"It seems we've only sought a chill." Mary rubbed her hands up and down her arms. "I wonder how they do it. It can't be some fantastic contraption, could it? To leave no footprints, only the stump's trail and so many pine needles-"

We got our answer almost immediately. With a great crash, the Hagey's Christmas tree flew through the upper window. My mouth fell open as the two men we had seen earlier quickly lowered themselves from the window and picked the fallen fir up. From this angle, I could see that it was weighted down with more than decorations. They had cleverly tied the sacks of stolen loot to the trunk at the middle and the base. The lowest bag would drag behind them as they went. If they carried the tree on their shoulders and ran in a straight line they would leave no footprints.

When the commotion in the house reached our ears, that is just what they did.

"After them, John!" Mary tugged at my sleeve and we exited the stables. The thieves had, to some extent, cleared themselves a path from the way they came. The pair exited by the same track. Mary and I hurried after them. I tried to trudge a path and she swept her skirts up past her boots in an effort to keep up. They had a heavy burden but also a headstart and some knowledge of the woods before us.

I was glad for the shelter the stables had provided. The wind whipped at my hat and scarf. It was bitterly cold, though neither of us slowed in our pursuit. Worse still, the clouds had been a portent of things to come. As we dashed after the thieves, a light flurry began to fall around us.

In less time that it takes to tell, we found ourselves approaching a snowy road. Our quarry had stopped to load a cart with their ill-gotten gains. A horse had been tied to a tree, and now it was pulling away from us with the thieves in tow.

"We were so close!" Mary hissed. "I doubt we'll catch them on foot."

"Fear not, my darling." I said as gallantly as I could in the bitter wind. "Neither of those men wore a heavy coat. I doubt they rode that horse cart far."

With slightly elevated spirits, we followed the dirt road. The flurry had turned into a proper snow. While nowhere approaching blizzard quality, neither of us appreciated being out in this kind of weather. Mary had better eyesight than I, and spotted when the tracks veered off down a side trail. It was not yet a half-hour from the Hagey's house and now we had come upon a cabin.

I had no knowledge of the lay of the land. We could be anywhere for all I knew. This might very well be just a few farms over. Perhaps we could catch the thieves and return by their own horse drawn cart. Mary and I approached from the dark side of the cabin. We could see the horse sheltering in a kind of stall, and made our way around to avoid startling it. At last we had arrived at a low window. We peered inside.

We were careful to keep to the edges of the frame as we got our first good glimpse of the daring burglars. There were two men in the cabin, one older and with a thick beard, and the other younger with a mustache. They were pulling off their boots and warming themselves by the fire. I couldn't hear what they said, but one waved his hands about and the other laughed. And there in the corner of the room… Three Christmas trees, and several bags of loot.

Mary and I ducked down beneath the windowsill together. There was just enough light to see the fog of her breath as she spoke.

"We have to surprise them. I don't think it wise to go after the horse, since it may be a nasty beast prone to biting. That, and if their horse startles, they are likely to investigate with weapons at hand."

I nodded. "We need something else. I could wait by the door for them while you scare the horse. That way, if they come running, I can get the drop on them."

"Oh John, you can't! What if they look out the window first and see you? If either of them are armed they will go after you for sure."

"What do you suppose we do then? We can't very well knock on the door and politely ask them to let us in."

Unbelievably, that is what we did.

I crouched beside the door with a deep scowl and one hand on my revolver. Mary had left my other coat with me as she crept up to the door. She did look half frozen in just her riding things, and the falling snow had the added benefit of obscuring just how long she had been out. We had argued briefly and fiercely over her plan. Unfortunately, Mary's idea was the only one we had.

She turned on the path, pacing for a moment. I watched her take several breaths to properly work herself up. Mary set her shoulders and plunged at the door.

"Help! Oh, is anyone home? Hello? Please, you must help me!" She pounded weakly on the door and I heard the men inside start moving. The door opened swiftly. Mary was illuminated in her soaked boots and snow-covered jacket looking every bit as pitiful as intended.

"Oh thank goodness!" She said. I readied my revolver. "My horse… He's broken his leg and I am so terribly lost in these woods-"

'Lost in the woods' was my cue. Had she said she had been 'wandering for hours' I would have known they came to the door armed. They were just beginning to usher her in when I sprang to the doorway with my revolver up. Mary ducked out of the way and I leveled the barrel at the closest man.

"Don't move, either of you. Hands up. Mary, take those ropes from the trees and secure these two. I have them covered."

The younger man swore something vile and my wife stifled a snort. I am sure, with her travels and association with a dubiously-respectable detective of my acquaintance, she had heard worse. Mary made swift work of her knots and I made a mental note to ask how many sailors she had met as a governess. I then ushered our bound burglars into the back of the cart and kept my gun on them while Mary hitched the horse. It turned out to be a gentle creature and was glad of the attention she gave it.

It was like this that we returned to the Hagey's farmhouse, now fully lit and swarming with people. The good Constable Magee must have seen our approach, for we had no sooner stopped the cart than he was running up to us waving his arms.

"Whoa there! Miss, what do you- good heavens, what do you think you're doing with that gun, sir?"

"He's keeping an eye on the Christmas tree burglars, Constable." Mary called to him. "We caught the scoundrels in the act as they made off with the Hagey's valuables."

Constable Magee was, I daresay, gobsmacked. The Hageys invited us in to warm up by the fire while the local police took care of our captives. Mary and I turned over our soaked outerwear and settled down on the sofa. We managed to keep our eyes awake for questioning, but soon fell fast asleep under our hosts' thickest afghan blanket.

Needless to say, the Hewitts' conversation was far more stimulating in the morning.

**A/N: it was way more research than necessary that led me to heist via tree. luckily, our man Watson had some help**


	13. Day 13 - Satisfaction Guarantee

**From sirensbane: A duel**

_"A man may shoot the man who invades his character as he may shoot him who attempts to break into his house."_ -Samuel Johnson to James Boswell

I did not envy my friend the position he was in, negotiating with a murderer over a pub table. Watson was a gentleman, completely fair and honorable, but the situation had spiraled out of our control. The two men sandwiching me on the bench each had a knife to my ribs. One lucky stab may not kill me, but two?

That was the risk I had taken running undercover. This case was a delicate one, involving an alleged gentleman who had claimed self-defense in the murders of several young men. I had been contacted by a distraught widow regarding the unjust death of her husband. Suffice to say the consultation had spurred Watson and I into action.

Our quarry seemed to be a better liar than I. It didn't take him too long to spot me among the ordinary roughs, though I had sufficient time to warn Watson he was on our trail before I was discovered. My guards insisted I stay bundled to the ears. It was not so much a protection from cold as it was a way to keep me from signalling to Watson with my expression.

We were both trapped now. I by threat of superfluous aeration, and Watson by societal convention. He sat across from the murderous Mister Larsen on the other side of our table. It is not a comfortable sensation to be a piece in someone else's game of chess. I am far more used to manipulating the board than being subject to another's whims. Food for thought.

"As you can imagine, Doctor Jones, I don't take kindly to slights against my character. Someone is going to have to answer-"

"That is hard to imagine, sir, as one must first have character to be slighted."

My mouth fell open, though none could see it for my heavy scarf. What was Watson doing? If he was attempting to get us killed in a fight this was an excellent way to go about it.

Larsen stood suddenly, rocking the bench. "You insult me, Doctor, and I demand an apology."

Half the pub was looking our way. I could feel the pressure on either side increase. I was going to be crushed between them before either knife got a chance at me. At any rate, if Watson started a brawl I would be the first casualty. It would be simplicity itself to knife someone while the attention was drawn on the main combatants and chalk up the death to the ensuing fight after the fact.

Surely Watson knew this. He had to know he wasn't fast enough to race a knife at this range.

Watson simply leaned back and crossed his arms. "I would apologise if I had told a lie."

A subtle change came over Larsen then and his voice took on a different fervor. "Then you are a liar and a scoundrel without honor!"

Watson lurched to his feet. "The only scoundrel here is you, Larsen, and from what I know a coward as well!"

"You have gone too far!" Larsen shouted, and silently I agreed with him. "You have insulted me not once but twice and I demand satisfaction."

_Oh, Watson, what have you done?_

"I will have my revolver in twenty minutes, and I will see you where you saw Bradley Gibbons, though you would be wiser to make yourself scarce before I arrive!"

Now the entire pub was witness to the disaster unfolding before me. At least there was no way the human winepress here with me would get away with murder. Watson had done that for me at least.

"Godfrey will be my second." Larsen said after a moment.

"I will be taking Mister Wilson." It was a bold move on Watson's part, but Larsen snapped at his men to move and I was released. "Twenty minutes, Larsen, and justice will be had!"

He took my arm and steered me from the pub in a hurry. Once we had cleared the doors, I tore down my scarf to berate him when he began hauling me in the opposite direction of the hotel.

"Holmes, tell me you have sufficient evidence to convict him of something. Anything."

Though still furious at his conduct, I replied in the affirmative.

"Wonderful. Is twenty minutes long enough to summon the police? If he insists on this pretext of honor, it may well only be Larsen and Godfrey there."

I stopped dead in my tracks and jerked Watson back. "You- you…! All of this talk of honor and dueling and you don't intend to- Watson, I do not know whether to be pleasantly surprised or incensed! He means to murder you as he did all the others, and-"

In a moment of perfect clarity, I understood. Watson had let Larsen labor under the assumption that the duel would not only be a logical outcome of the argument, but an accepted conclusion. Watson had not accepted, technically, nor had he named a second. _Technically._ He had only said he was going to get his gun, meet in the field, and take me with him.

Turnabout was fair play, and Watson read the thoughts off my face as I had done to him so many times. "I have no gift for improvisation, Holmes, and you know I will ruin any falsehood set up on the spur of the moment. That is why I resolved to this course of action, or a similar one, the moment we left our rooms. Should it come to this, I wrote myself an out."

I felt a grin spreading on my face. Of course, everything he said had been perfectly true. He had been listening when I told him the best lies were planted in truth. Maybe he couldn't spin a yarn on the spot, but he had done something just as clever.

"And besides, it is perfectly honorable to turn down a challenge issued by a madman." Watson returned my smile as we ran for the police station.

I laughed. "And while Johnson may have defended the man who would shoot over a slight, I am not so fond of the practice myself. What a relief it is that my Boswell should also refuse. I have evidence to get the whole gang on burglary, and I am certain his men will turn traitor when we reclassify these duels as murders."

"And if we needed more sufficient a pretext, the police would do well to remember dueling is illegal."

I shook my head at him, although I did not know if he would see it as we ran. "Then you would implicate yourself! After all, your knowledge of the manner and location implies that you accepted."

"Me, Holmes? Heavens no." Whether he paused from exertion or laughter I couldn't tell. "He challenged that Doctor Jones at the pub... and we've certainly never been introduced!" We chuckled our way to the police station, and then all the way down to Larsen's 'field of honor'.

Needless to say he did not find any of it very funny.


	14. Day 14 - In for a penny, in for a pond

**A/N: bit of a rush job on this but i have been carsick for _five hours_  
**

**From BookRookie12: Treasure**

Many of my countrymen have told tales or embellished stories of Roman gold and barrow treasures hidden in the hills. England was captivated by the riches of ghosts. A polite country doctor of my acquaintance had been of the same mind. On this occasion Holmes had seen fit to send me down for the preliminary investigation while he wrapped up a string of robberies back in London. Doctor Hall had a book of poems, a map, and an account from the naval captain who is said to have hidden the treasure. I had entertained some idea of finding it myself and saving Holmes the trip. Since it seemed so cut-and-dry and affair, he supposed he would only come down if I wrote.

The moon peered at my friend's progress as the wind came over the pond to greet us. We were chilled to the bone even in the absence of snow. Holmes was sweating knee-deep in a ditch at the crest of the hill. Under what had once been '_the shadow of the tallest oak, marked with the ship's sign_', Captain Broadben had buried his Spanish gold. Holmes had found the mark at the base of an oak stump. He had found a rusted sword buried to the hilt to mark the spot, and luckily had only been digging the better part of an hour. Really, it should have been over long before now. Hardly worthy of my friend's presence. Holmes had abandoned his coat for a shovel. He had not looked up from his work since Hall bid him to begin, but scowled at the ground all the while. I hung my head part for dizziness but mostly in shame. Hall's fist was clenched in the neck of my jacket while his other hand kept us covered with his pistol.

"It's here." Holmes sounded impatient as he called out. "There's a box under the tip of the sword."

"Dig it out." Hall's reply was as tense, with the added wheeze of a rib injury. At least about that I felt no guilt. The country doctor was healthy as a horse and we both gave as good as we got. I was sure I had looked a sight when Holmes burst into the foyer just minutes after our brawl. Doctor Hall had crossed legal lines for the Broadben gold, and there was no turning back for him. Neither of us were fit to dig after the fight, but it did not ease my guilt. He and I were both marked by blood and bruises by the time it was settled. Had it not been for his untimely intervention with a heavy candlestick I would have captured him in advance of Holmes' arrival.

The shovel struck stone and Holmes growled into the dirt. We'd long been in silence on the hill ledge overlooking the pond. The wind rippling the water was the only sound to be heard besides the rushing of the leaves. It seemed Broadben's treasure box was packed well into the dirt.

Holmes uttered another string of frustrated mumbling. Despite my head wound I would have volunteered to help, even with my hands tied behind my back. Doctor Hall was getting his petty vengeance for my breaking his rib. I had thought I was doing Holmes a service by trying to apprehend Hall. I had planned to write to him afterwards of my success, once I had all the proof he had stolen his neighbor's land. The elderly baronet's children were flung to the far corners of the world, and he would scarcely notice a trespassing circus let alone one greedy physician.

I used the blood dripping down my brow as an excuse not to meet Holmes' eye as he placed first the sword then the wooden box onto level ground. Doctor Hall kept his pistol aloft. "Open it. No tricks, Holmes."

There was nothing save any irritated sigh from him. Holmes searched the lock and hinges with his fingers and brushed away as much dirt as he could. Finally, with an almighty creak, the pried it open.

"It's only a letter, Doctor Hall, as I expected."

He released me on that instant. "What!" I glanced up to find fury on his face, but it was all directed towards that little box. "Another clue? Another puzzle? Broadben's journal said this would be the last one! He even marks the page where it becomes a diary once more."

Holmes pressed his lips into a thin line. "Perhaps if you had read that diary, you would have come to the same conclusion as I. Captain Broadben goes into detail about how- after the loss of his only child- he could not bear to retrieve the heirloom he had hidden for-" With a growl, Hall shoved me back and charged for the box. It was not a hard shove. I could easily regain my footing if I caught my weight just so-

_"Watson!"_

My back foot met open air and I plunged off the ledge.

The drop to the old mill pond was not far. But the water was deep and I was down a set of free arms. Oddly enough, the instant after I submerged I felt the pond upset a second time. The force of it tilted me sideways before a pair of arms- _Holmes!_\- caught me and we were surfacing again. Time may move in strange paths when one is concussed, but that series of events felt rather succinct to me.

In moments we had arrived at shallow enough waters for Holmes to set me on my own feet. He freed my arms and together we waded up the gravel shore.

"Doctor Hall-" I began.

"His gun came into the pond with me, I fear. I was in somewhat of a hurry and didn't see to him." Holmes gave me an odd frown before continuing. "That water is filthy, Watson. Really, you should have cleaned your cut with something else. I hardly think it will do you any benefit."

I wanted to laugh, but it was too soon a reminder of my failure. "I couldn't catch him, Holmes. After I found that map with the pond, I thought if I could catch him…"

He shook his head. "It looks as if we have both failed in that respect. But have no fear, Watson, I do not believe him anything more clever than an opportunist on a lucky streak. Besides-" He looked up at the ledge. "If Captain Broadben has taught him anything, it is that some treasures are more valuable than Spanish gold."

**A/N: listen... action/adventure... the next one will be supercilious cerebral exposition or something i just need to cycle through all the genres. gotta try horror too, maybe western, neo-classical power-metal space opera. we're working up to it, people**


	15. Day 15 - Perilous Peoplewatching

**From Winter Winks 221: [Prompt at the end]**

There was a wealth of data to be observed wherever people gathered. While there was a whole world to see on their persons- clerks and ink stains and creases in pants from desks and carriages- there was a different layer altogether in how they went about their business. The tilt of the feet meant a great deal, as did posture, weight distribution, eye contact, how they carried their arms, what they carried in them-

Mycroft had about mastered the art. I used to call out the basics of a deduction and be called upon to explain. After that, Mycroft would add another layer to the story, telling of how the host really felt about that single young lady in the corner based entirely on how his shoulders sat. Or, it seemed that way at the time. Facts demystify all, and I saw the parlor tricks unfold until I could repeat them and build ones of my own.

I sat behind the bannister and watched as Mycroft actually attended the parties. He was older, expected to socialize. One day I would be called upon to prove my 'good breeding' too. Until then, I kept a list of observations. Once Mycroft could pry himself from the tedious conversation with enough of an excuse, we could talk. I could tell him I had seen the fact that Major Moncrief had picked up gambling again. My money was on horses, but I couldn't explain why. He would see the little detail I missed.

I learned a year's worth of gossip in twenty minutes peoplewatching. None of it was important, but like Mycroft said, the exercise was its own reward. It certainly went better than pretending to be asleep. I didn't care who Mrs. Abernathy was having an affair with, or that Lady Belmont was strongly considering murdering her husband. She would not follow through with those plans, judging from the defeated looks she kept directing towards the ceiling. She thought no one was looking. That was something else I had observed: someone always was.

The party carried on while I lay on my stomach past the top of the stairs. I was well out of sight, though one pair of eyes deduced where I was. I waved to Mycroft even though he could not see. Christmas parties were no different than the others, with the exception that the guests wore a lot more red and green. At least the atmosphere seemed cherrier than other times. The deductions at Christmas were merrier than the affairs, embezzlers, and misdemeanors during the rest of the year.

One particular party guest interested me for that very reason. She was a pink-faced older girl who had gone through that ordeal of a debut earlier this year. Everyone seemed very pleased about it, while neither I nor Mycroft cared one whit. Girls were very nice, like this one usually was, but they rarely had the same interests. Or wanted to, save for Mathilda Herringford, who had been very interested in different kinds of frogs before her family moved away.

Not this girl. She had a set look in her eyes as she maneuvered through the room. Her movements were very neat, and I supposed that from anywhere but above no one would notice her intent. For once I had one over on Mycroft. He would hardly call it fair for the lack of data on his end. But if he was so unlucky…

Immediately I saw the problem. Whatever her name was- Winnie or Wilhelmina or something- was glaring at my unsuspecting brother's back. She was making a beeline for him, and I had to deduce why before I could warn him. Maybe it would give him enough time to run, or spill wine on somebody. I scanned Winsherface for clues but found none. She wore an ordinary dress, currently fashionable as far as I could tell. Perhaps it was something to do with the hall's mirrors. She checked each one she passed-

Oh! Oh dear indeed.

_"Caught under the mistletoe I see, brother mine. Good luck."_


	16. Day 16 - Helping Hands

**From Book girl fan: Mrs Hudson needs a special helper.**

"There, you've got them just right. I daresay they won't notice. And if I refill the beaker just so…" Mrs. Hudson made her little arrangements on the chemistry table. She lifted a lifeless arm and slide a sheet of paper underneath the hand. Perfect. "You'll need to make the final touches after I go. It'll hardly do to be that close at hand when they come round. After all the thinking we had to do on the numbers…"

She shook her head. "The paper will set him on the wrong track well enough. And you'll have to take your usual fee from Mister Holmes, dear. Doctor Watson hasn't been well of late and you know how our Mary is. She'll not take kindly to us returning him in worse shape than we sent him." She paused, crossed to the armchair, and shifted the drooping newspaper back into the cold hand. "Heaven knows she's tidied up a number of scares herself. But we'll have no quarrel from her on this one. Playing with fire gets one burned after all."

She stepped back from her work. The beaker was stirring noxious but hardly fatal fumes into the sitting room. Her lodgers were slumped in their respective seats, looking for all the world as if they were taking the most unusual nap.

"Feel free to take your fill from Mrs. Jones' cat though, dearie. It's a horrible beast. This is the fifth time we've had to fix them up this month and I know it doesn't go easy on you." Mrs. Hudson made for the door. "I'll count to ten and then start knocking. You do your part, and if it isn't too much trouble, let our Mary know in advance. Poor dear does not like surprises."

She left the temporary corpses in her helper's capable hands. The fewer fatal discoveries made by accident, the better, but it was hard work un-discovering them. "The things we do for the poor souls…" She muttered and finished her count. Three, two one…

"Mister Holmes? Mister Holmes, what is that awful smell? I hope you haven't been burning my rug again. Mister Holmes!"

**A/N: does that count as special**


	17. Day 17 - Only Human

**From PowerofPens: An Inspector sees Holmes at his most human**

We saw a fair bit of Mister Holmes in our day. Of course, he was there for the famous cases, the press spectacles, the ones our good Doctor wrote up for the publishers. In the early days he was there for what felt like all of them. Those of us in the older generation remember the days. We were young and eager too, but there was always a mania about the gawking lad at the crime scenes that made us remark on him. A handful of nicknames got thrown about before we were all introduced. A bobbie could say 'Look, there's the Scarecrow' or 'Here comes Eyes' and any of us who'd seen him before would know.

And then he went and solved a murder within fifteen seconds of sighting the corpse. None of us that heard of it believed it, and none of us that were there would ever forget. He'd worked his way as close as he was able without painting a target on himself. I'd spotted him this time and passed out the general warning. Mostly we got a kick out of watching him, like we assumed he got his from being close to crime. He did his dance through the other passers-by and arrived at the barricade just as Inspector Barrow was leading the suspect from the house.

"Inspector, I am innocent! You know I never left my rooms, and Matthew never entered them!" I was watching as a matter of course but none of the other lads gave him the time of day. Sir William Trelane was a young-ish gentleman who we had dead to rights on killing his brother. His eyes were red-rimmed but not a one of us believed the tears were genuine. Of course, he'd broken down at the sight of Matthew Trelane laying in the street, but we all knew it was the guilt of pushing him out the window.

We all knew, didn't we? We sure thought so, until the Scarecrow had enough and pushed his way through.

"Inspector! There is no way this man could have murdered the gentleman under the sheet there."

Every man inside the cordon stopped dead. We were all staring at our crime-scene shadow like he'd grown a second head, or announced publicly he was going to blow up Big Ben. My first thought was that he was off his rocker. One crime scene too many, or he took that French detective character too seriously.

Inspector Barrow thought differently, but no better. "So he couldn't have killed our murder victim eh, sir? He was the only one upstairs, never left the room the victim fell from. The housekeeper was outside the very door when she heard the scream, and a moment later the butler came running up too, said no one had been down the stairs. How do you account for it?"

The lad pointed up at the window. I looked, if just to see what he was driving at. It was a tall affair on the second story* with a small patio and a wooden railing wrapped around it. There wasn't room enough there for three men to stand, so it had to have been the brother.

"The railing is rotted through at the bottom. How could a man of the victim's size be pushed from the second story window and not take it with him? You can send up any of your men to test the integrity, but they had best be careful." There was a gleam in the lad's eyes, as if he'd been waiting months to say this very thing.

"It's true!" The brother spoke up. "No one goes out on the railing for safety's sake. As Mrs. Sykes, she will tell you!"

Inspector Barrow pushed his suspect aside and got (as best he was able) nose to nose with our lanky friend. "What, then? Mister Matthew Trelane just fell from the sky, is that it?"

The scarecrow shook his head. "Not at all Inspector. See to the first story window." He pointed up again. "There's no balcony attached to it, and the smudges in the dust might prove to match those on Mister Matthew's jacket." One of the bobbies saw the victim's shoulder peeking out from the shroud and moved to cover it.

"The height's hardly enough to kill him."

"I think you'll find it's more than enough. In any case, it would be best to check the room for another murder weapon-"

"I've had enough from you!" Barrow bellowed. "Make yourself scarce, or I will arrest you for interfering with an investigation!"

The young man paled, looked as if he was going to say something, but thought better of it. He turned on his heel and bolted my way, as far from the Inspector as he could get. I watched him coming up and was surprised to see nothing written on his face. Nothing at all. He was as blank as a statue… He brushed past me and turned the corner into the alley.

"See he goes." Inspector Bellows said more quietly.

"Yes sir."

I didn't want to chase him off, not anymore, but I followed him the length of the alley and turned the corner to make sure he headed off the right way. I didn't expect to nearly run into him as he was waiting for me. I jumped back, looking plenty bewildered I'm sure.

He was just as tall and spindly up close. But there was something I could see now that I hadn't caught before. His eyes were boring into me like they'd done with every inch of the crime scene. Only, he didn't look angry or excited or any of the expected things. Didn't look like he was after a fight. He looked like a man who'd taken a gamble and lost it all. Those were sadder eyes than William Trelane's by a long shot.

"I mean to leave, Constable, at once. If you will permit one question." I nodded and let him ask. "Was I wrong? My theory or my decision to interject- you can take your pick."

For a moment I was flummoxed, but I knew the answer and was speaking it before I realized. "No you weren't, sir. About either. Once you pointed out the railing, we could all see it. Barrows wanted to save face." I paused. "How did you see it when we all missed it?"

I wasn't sure then why I was so relieved to see him cheer up like he did. He smiled, laughed a little bit, and said "I aim to make it my business, seeing things others miss. I wanted to know and… I didn't want William Trelane to hang for the murder. I would check his butler. Pardon the phrase, but my money's on him being a bookie of some sort. Likely killed Matthew Trelane over a gambling debt."

I glanced up and down the alley. Coast was clear. "I'll do it. Can't promise they'll listen to me, but I'll do the due dilligence."

The man's grin widened. "The Yard is matchless in their thoroughness and method. I won't forget you, Constable."

"Nor I you, sir, if you ever do get into practice and we have a tougher case than we can crack."

"Excellent!" Said he, and stuck out his hand. "Holmes."

"Lestrade." We shook. "Now," I raised my voice just a little. "Clear off! Nothing to see here, no business of the public."

With a laugh he began back on his way down the street. Before I had the chance to go and before he'd gone too far, he turned to call back.

"Marry her, Lestrade! If she loves you enough to stay around with a Constable and those horrid hours, I imagine she will stay well past 'Inspector'!"

Cheeky. Insufferable. But, he was never wrong, and just as human as any of us.

**A/N: *second story British, third floor American. thought I'd clarify because I doubt the 'ground floor' drop would make any sense. also I'M American and that always confuses me. like I understand it but... confusing**


	18. Day 18 - Dashing through the Streets

**From PowerOfPens: The Irregulars help Holmes through some trouble**

Wiggins dashed down the seventeen stairs as fast as his legs could carry him, pausing only to allow Mrs. Hudson to pass in safety. He bolted out into the street, and found the next nearest Irregular.

"Oi, Tom! Get a chain goin' for the Doctor!"

Tom left Wiggins where he was standing and moved quick as he could down Baker Street. He side-stepped pedestrians and cabs alike before he spotted his target.

"Al! We're sending for Doctor Watson! Emergency!"

One by one they completed their link in the chain. Each one passed the message; quick was the word and sharp was the action. Eventually, it fell to Finn the Fin from the fish market to make the final leg.

"Doctor Watson!" He burst into the room, lungs at full power. "It's an emergency!"

The doctor in question was luckily only finishing up a report and not in the middle of an appointment. He leapt up from his chair at once.

"Where?"

"The home base sir!"

"Right." Watson grabbed his bag and put on his coat. "If you'll send the word back, lad-" But the Fin was already darting through the sea of foot traffic. He passed the message onto Jimmy the shoeshine, who ran it back to Mac, who ran it back to Billy and Carver, and Carver went to Richie who went to Al who went to Tom who went to Wiggins. The unofficial head of the Irregulars ran it back upstairs.

Mrs. Hudson was stationed outside the washroom door. "He'll not let me in, young man." She lowered her voice. "He's more ill than we thought."

Wiggins approached the door. "Mister Holmes? We've got Doctor Watson on his way. Be here any minute, he will!"

There was a weak chuckle from behind the door. "I suppose I have no say in the matter of word has already been delivered down the grapevine. Very well."

Wiggins and Mrs. Hudson waited. After a long pause, Holmes spoke again.

"If the grapevine can take another message, pass along my thanks."

The young man's face broke into a grin. "Will do, sir!"

A/N: short today as im sick as Holmes


	19. Day 19 - I Can Hear a Train A' Coming

**From BookRookie12: "Are you happy?"**

"Happy?"

Chester Hale peered down at me in that cold, curious way of his. It was rather unnerving, how the tilt of his expression recalled Moriarty to my mind- No, this was a man of lesser genius, although formidable in his own right. But by that darkest of points in the encounter I had stopped caring about such things. I had thought the Professor would be the one to do me in, should we ever encounter each other in more than passing.

But it seemed that Hale would be the cause of my downfall, and his agent a fast moving train.

"I should not be happy until I have retired to some villa on a coast, with my studies, never to be bothered by the mundane populous again." He said this in the same voice one would use to comment on the weather. Might as well have said he would only be happy if it stopped raining. I would be less uncomfortable, but by that time no weather would have brought me cheer.

Hale had retrieved his umbrella once more, for all the good it did him. We were both soaked to the bone. My legs were muddier for being dragged through the grass but neither of us had escaped. One of my shoes was lost somewhere between here and the station. I should have torn him to pieces when I had the chance.

"You'll be far less happy in the dock." I said. "Scotland Yard is already on your track. Adding another murder to the list will do you no good."

Hale kept peering at me, conveying nothing. "They will have a harder time of it, with their top bloodhound run down. No, Mister Holmes, I don't imagine an outcome of this little adventure where I lose. It is an hour or so still before the next train but… You would have to be every bit the wizard your reputation suggests to avoid it."

He was right, though I had hopes of freeing myself after he left. Hale did not seem like the sort to bother with waiting around to see my demise in person. Especially now that we were both drenched and miserable. Most of all, he sought comfort and luxury for himself. He wouldn't waste any more time than he had to.

"It is a pity. I do regret that our paths have crossed. It may gratify you some to know that I take no pleasure in adding murder to my record. Unofficial though it will be, I am no happier for that at least."

"And that is such a kindness!" I fear I lost my temper somewhat. "Why should I be unappreciative of your efforts, sir, they have only cost a life-!"

Hale only blinked at me, as if I were a laboratory specimen. "You will not forgive me of course, nor would I think to ask it of you. I simply wished to say, before I left, that it was no personal attack. You needed to be stopped in order for me to escape. And I harbored no desire to harm your late doctor-"

I am not one to lose my head in fits of temper. On occasion I have taken my frustration out on objects in the sitting room, or vocalized some dissatisfaction with the events occurring. Few remarks I make in this vein are directed at others. And the opposite end of the range is the same. I should not weep for an unalterable tragedy as it would do nothing for the victims and less for those still in danger. That is not to say I do not feel. It is folly to argue with facts and truth. Simply put, outward displays of emotion do little for me, and I do not see the benefit in performing solely to satisfy the expectations of others. My moods, when I have them, are genuine and expressed as they are. It rather suits me that they are few and mostly mild. I do not consider myself a volatile person on whole.

That being said, there are things I simply cannot abide. I respect cleverness in a person, be they criminal or otherwise. I appreciate originality. But I will not tolerate injustice. Perhaps my ideas of law and order do not strictly coincide with those written down but there is right and wrong. Mankind is capable of knowing the difference. Those who would ignore or inflict brutality and suffering for their personal gain… I will not endure it.

"My objection-" I began in a fury unlike any I had experienced for some time, "-is not with your intent, but your actions! It does not matter in the least whether you intended harm. Harm was done! That is irrevocable!" I had remained somewhat subdued due to a blow to the head when we had fought earlier, but Hale's weapon had been lost and he had no other readily available. I struggled against my bonds and felt a little give between my arm and the railroad track even as I stared him down.

"And I asked, Hale, if you were happy because I will do anything in my power to ensure it is the last happiness you taste. You may run to your villas and studies but so long as there is breath in my lungs I will hunt you with the intent of putting an end to it!"

I managed to wrench one wrist free and he took a step back. He could manage to secure me again, but he knew I was eager to see him try it. Whatever non-feelings he associated with our violent quarrel were not reciprocated. His best option was to run. To run, and to pray.

Alas, my arm was still pinned at the elbow or I would have made quicker work of it. Whatever could be said for Hale's temperament, he was thorough in his method. It seemed he was also to gain his wits before I gained any more mobility. He remembered his umbrella, and began retracting it in order to wield against me. I was tearing at the knot over my midsection and cared little for the obstacles that stood between me and his demise. I snarled from the bonds holding my torso just as Hale took his umbrella by the tip and raised it.

"Stop right there! Drop that umbrella or I'll shoot!"

We both froze, stunned. Neither of us had expected to be joined on the railroad track. Let alone by my dear friend.

"I'm warning you, Hale. Step back."

Shocked, he complied. The umbrella hit the mud and we both stared at the top of the hill where Watson stood, as muddy and wet as either of us. I quickly regained my presence of mind and finished freeing myself. Hale's ropes were turned against him, and I made sure he would not escape again.

Watson started sliding down the hill towards us, one hand on his revolver and the other out for balance. Never have I been so thrilled by such an uncoordinated effort and I doubted I would be afterwards. But I had no complaints for the moment. I pushed Hale over into the grass and ran to meet my friend.

"Watson! You never cease to surprise me, old fellow! I must ask though, what would you have done with that dripping revolver had Hale not stopped?"

Watson blinked at me. From the ground, our prisoner groaned with the realization.

"I… that is, I think…"

"Well, you've been resourceful thus far. I'm sure you would have thought of something. But I have one more question. How it is you've…"

"Yes, Holmes?"

"How did you fall from a moving train, survive, and manage to track the pair of us here?"

He looked as if someone had put him through the ringer, to be sure. But I was at a loss. The area of track we had been going over was perched on the edge of a ravine. Even at a low speed, he would have been hard-pressed to avoid injury.

Watson managed to smile without looking pleased. "It was pure luck, Holmes. By the time I reached the ravine, it had been flooded. The water was freezing, but it pushed me closer to the station faster than I would have come by foot. Once I finally managed to reach a bank, the train had already come and gone." He gave me a wry grin. "Fortunately someone left me a clue."

He reached into his sopping jacket and pulled out my shoe.

"I daresay you'll be happier with two."

I threw back my head and laughed. "Yes, Watson, I think I will."


	20. Day 20 - Conscience Thought

**From Hades Lord of the Dead: "Does your conscience ever bother you?" **

It was too soon, I thought, for such a question. In the heat of the moment of course, looking out over the frigid waters of the Thames, it might be understandable. It flowed faster and deeper these days than it had in times past. I had no doubt our quarry had met his end in the waters.

Inspector Lestrade was glaring hotly at my friend, who was staring out over the river. In all the time I had known him, Holmes had seldom expressed any sentiment in line with Lestrade's question.

"Are you frequently bothered by yours?"

Lestrade didn't miss a beat. "Every day. You know the stakes."

Holmes gave the river a small smile. "I feel in some ways less constructed yet more pressured than you, Lestrade. You have the law to govern your every action, while I as a free agent must hold myself to account. Every action must sit well with me."

He turned at last. "Does my conscience bother me? No. But have no doubt that is a persistent, invisible specter ever hiding his my hand."

Lestrade have him a hard look before turning away with a mighty sigh. Holmes left the railing and headed my way.

"Come, Watson. Our work is finished here."

**A/N: short and sweet; at a wedding**


	21. Day 21 - Burning Love

**From W. Y. Traveller: Roasting**

"Watson! The door!"

We barreled through the hallway just in time to find the roof collapsing in on itself, the floor above at last succumbing to the blaze. Shielding the man over my shoulder as much as I could, I pushed my way through the wooden double doors and out into the foyer. I knew not to breathe the smoke looking at the ceiling, but my lungs forced a cough. We had to get out of there.

"The door is still barred, Holmes!" I yelled over the crackling timbers. "Which way?"

He swore and looked around. "Hobson meant to cook them alive if they escaped the reception or not." I think he spotted the drawing room the same time as I did. We hurried the bride and groom across the burning lobby.

"Georgian windows!" Holmes yelled. I took the lead. The poor stunned groom and I were soon flying out in a spray of broken glass. We hit the ornate bushes in a rush. I was coughing but uninjured, and the impact seemed to rouse the newlywed. He was coming to as I dragged him out of the way. Holmes' wiry frame and the slighter bride crushed the foliage next. Together we hurried from the house as quickly as we were able.

"Agatha- is she alright?" Her harried husband asked me.

I turned to help answer his question, only to find the lady in question planting an enthusiastic kiss on Holmes' cheek. My poor friend looked as if he would rather run anywhere- even into the fire- than be there. But he would no more drop a lady than any gentleman, and set her down as quickly as was safe. Her husband threw back his head and laughed when she came to repeat the procedure on me.

"Dear Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson-" said she, "I cannot thank you enough! To think, I had discouraged my brother against consulting you! How very sorry we should have been if he listened!"

"Too true." Her husband chimed in. "I hadn't thought your devil of a former suitor would so have it out for us. You earned more than a kiss for pulling our hides from the fire!"

"Suffice to say-" Holmes straightened up, coughed, and tactfully put me between himself and the grateful couple. "-he will bother you no more. The back gardens are locked, and the police have the grounds surrounded. I am glad he at least scared away the guests before setting off his infernal device."

At this moment, one of the guests could be seen returning in a hurry. Agatha's brother rushed up to meet us, followed by several members of the fire brigade.

"Aggie! David! We had thought you lost! Oh, Mister Holmes how can we ever-"

It seemed Holmes had little trust for the brother not to match his sister's temperament. He shifted closer and behind me as to block off any advancement.

"I'm quite satisfied that a violent if uninventive criminal has been captured at last. Please, don't let us further delay the celebration and the honeymoon. We wish you every happiness."

With that, we made the speediest exit from a crime scene I think we have ever achieved.

"What, Holmes?" I asked as he practically pushed me forth to part the seas, "Finished after only a light roasting?"

"You do not observe, Watson. I am well done!" He glanced over his shoulder to ensure we weren't followed. "With all of it! I doubt I shall ever take a case with a wedding at the center again. If only our firebug Harold Dawes has wanted to commit arson at funerals, or..."

"Don't you dare suggest christenings."

Holmes scoffed. "Really Watson! One hardly plans vengeance on an infant."

I shook my head and let him lead me past the onlookers and towards what could only be Scotland Yard's representatives. We had a story to tell, and I could guess which details would be 'trivial' enough to exclude from this narrative.


	22. Day 22 - Icing on the Cake

**A/N: these last few have been short because i have been restricted to mobile due to travel.**

**From Ennui Enigma: Penguins**

"And this is ice hockey?"

"Yes Holmes."

"And the objective is, I'm sure, just what one would imagine it to be?"

"Yes Holmes."

He leaned his elbow upon his knee and then rested his chin in his hand. We were both bundled to the ears against the cold. Our client was one Benjamin Pope, an amateur ice hockey coach who suspected a rival team for roughing his players off the ice.

The violence had resulted in the hospitalization of one of the defensemen after he had been sent a hollowed-out book spring loaded with a knife inside. No one had been seen delivering the package, and the poor lad's sister had said it was in the box like any other unanswered-for delivery.

Other incidents included a polite Finnish player taking a rock to the face, a young lad narrowly avoiding being poisoned, and the coach himself nearly being run down by a cab.

"Someone would kill for this... glorified children's game?"

I watched the practice continue with some interest. I had taken notice of the sport some time ago, as it was gaining popularity. "Our colonial cousins are preparing to make it a professional sport. I dare say in the next few years we will be seeing more of it. And really Holmes, it is more than twelve men sliding around on the ice like penguins."

"And what, pray tell, is a penguin?"

My mouth fell open slightly and I turned to see if he was serious. Holmes looked bored. I narrowed my eyes, but he showed no sign of being in jest. Still, after the last time I had been the played for a fool I had resolved to be on guard.

"Apologies, Holmes. It is the sporting term for a player who is very impressive looking but is rarely effective."

He didn't say anything, but kept watching the ice. I fought the urge to roll my eyes. At least his little trap hadn't caught me.

It seemed like we would continue to sit through practice in silence when Holmes suddenly surged to his feet.

"You there, _penguin_! Step away from the bench!"

I was too surprised to laugh. The unfortunate young man who had been singled out came to an abrupt halt, as did everyone on the ice. Mister Pope started moving forwards as well and his players followed his lead. Holmes staggered onto the ice. I got up to follow, much slower on account of my leg. If he wanted to slide to his death in such a hurry, I would let him.

Holmes finally cornered the player, now backed by his own team. "You are a cab driver by trade, are you not?"

The young man nodded. "Indeed," Holmes started, "your trousers give you away. I find that this recent string of attacks would be easily accomplished by a mobile yet unassuming looking individual."

One of Pope's men reached for the insulated water jug on their bench and Holmes surged forward to slap it out of his hands.

"I would avoid that particular jug, Mister Lindon. It seems the danger hounding your team is getting sloppier. I saw this man slip something into the water."

I had just reached the edge of the lake when pandemonium broke out. The accused tried to flee, and every other man around him came to the consensus that it was time to brawl. Holmes was caught in a flurry of punches, kicks, and the occasional flying stick. Two men tackled the poisoner and all three went sliding my way. I jumped to the side as they crashed into the slush. Holmes would have to handle his own for a moment. I reached down and helped the two forwards capture their man.

Mister Pope and the other coach had managed to part the two teams, though there were still a great deal of insults being thrown back and forth. Holmes was sprawled on the ice, holding himself up by his knees and elbows.

"Holmes, we have him!" I called. "He's not going anywhere."

"Wonderful, Watson." Pope was there to help him to his feet. "You have your penguin. It seems he has continued in his failure as he began."

Pope, bewildered, looked to me for clarification. "Penguin?"

A broad grin split my face. I felt the sudden look but did not meet Holmes' eye. "A flightless bird to the last, Mister Pope."

"Ah." He said. "Well I can't thank you enough gentlemen. You have our sincere gratitude."

"You are very welcome." Holmes said in a clipped tone. "Now I would like to get out of the cold and have a quick word with my associate."

It occurred to me that this quick word would be _much_ colder than the outdoors.

**A/N: annd with the penalty on number 93 from the Moriarty Syndicate, your Baker Street Irregulars are ON! THE! POWER PLAY!**

***insert funnier hockey joke here***


	23. Day 23 - All the roads lead to Holmes

**A/N: sorry for the delay, I nearly had to go to the hospital but I am A-OK now I promise  
**

**Holdmycoat: AU where Sherlock Holmes lives in ancient Rome**

Hadrian's Wall was where careers were sent to die. It did not matter if one was a Centurion or simply one of the innumerable legion. Many of the men in the frontier were not the best-liked, and more on the Vallum Hadriani were auxiliaries rather than citizens. It seemed they cared little for those stationed all the way in the northwest, and more for the territory. But that was to be expected. Pax Romana was not maintained by walls and roads alone.

And with a careless observation, I was to become crushed underneath such a paving stone. When a Centurion would not be disgraced, he may find a different way to remove obstacles. It did not matter what in the Senate one's brother did if enough secrecy was involved. Secrecy and threats. Fustuarium was taken perhaps more seriously out here than anywhere other than Rome.

By threat of death was I out beyond the wall. Perhaps for the only time in this misadventure, my keen eye was serving to my benefit. I was sent out alone in search of medicinal herbs known to the Selgovae. I had the fortune to be able to spend hours out in the woods looking for yellow four-notched petals, broad-tipped leaves with catkins, and shrubs with little purple flowers. The stalks of the latter would likely go into the century's bedding, but my job at this juncture was not to ask questions. Too many questions had landed me in these circumstances. Were things any different, I should say I would spend my time asking more.

My brother said this would be a waste of my talents, and I fear he was right. Yet, scouring Britannia's far north for medicinal plants was my lot in life. For the time being I was little more than an errand boy.

I heard movement in the brush to my left and turned. One hand was on the hilt of my sword, but I relaxed as I saw some sort of furry creature dart off into the shadows. However, in its escape it had drawn my attention to a shrub of delicate leaves and purple blooms. I let my sword hang at my side and instead took up my bag. Much of the plant would be needed, and I had yet to locate the great quantities other scouts had spoken of.

No sooner had I grasped the first fistful of blossoms when something much heavier than my woodland guide moved behind me. I turned, but didn't have time to fully draw my sword before a man sprang from the foliage and tackled me to the ground. I swung at him, flowers still clasped tightly in my hand. The blow stunned him, but not enough to dislodge his weight nor to distract him long enough to get at my weapon. One additional advantage he had was an iron knife now raised over my head.

And even as all of this was happening, I saw something else. It was not my life flashing before my eyes, nor the realization of all my disappointments.

"You are a healer!"

A look of surprise and anger flashed across his face. He turned nearly the red-copper color of his hair. I would not call myself a coward, but at that moment I had no desire to watch the grisly death about to befall me. I could spend my last moments categorizing the damage to my person before succumbing. Despite knowing my capabilities that was hardly a comforting thought. I squeezed my eyes shut.

"How… came you to know this?"

I opened one eye. The barbarian- by the manner of his speech and the sound of his words I knew him to be local- had his knife poised as before, though he had stayed his hand. It would do no harm to perform my observations one last time.

"Your fingernails." I pointed with the most visible hand to his holding the knife. "You have crushed vegetation recently. While one can imagine it arrived there under ordinary circumstances, there is still a crushed petal on the blade." I gave him a grim smile and opened my hand to reveal my own flowering plant. "We are hunting the same prey."

Other things stood out to me that I dared not mention at this juncture. The tilt of his shoulders, the way his clothing hung so loosely on his frame… Even the resignation in his eyes spoke volumes of the miseries he had no doubt endured. Zealous patriot I was not. Likely as not we both had our own sins. I could not begrudge him his hatred of Rome.

After my words, I watched another burst of emotion flood his features. This time, the progression went from suspicion, to anger, before finally settling somewhere in the area of irritation. It was if he had questioned my honesty, become furious at being so easy to read, and then decided I was harmless enough. Enough for a Roman soldier, his enemy.

"You-" he began, "I desire not to kill you now. Another time we will meet to kill, but not today."

He began sheathing his knife. I was grateful not to have been killed, but there would be no discussion. Not least of all from him, who had suffered so much from the hands of my countrymen. But it seemed I was destined to inconvenience him further. I spotted a familiar movement in the grass. Quicker than he could react, I shoved the barbarian up and off to the side. He tumbled to the ground, already drawing his knife but by then it was too late.

His jaw fell open as he saw the serpent hanging from my arm. I could do nothing but stare intently at it as it repeated its attack once more before dropping back to the earth. The fire in my arm was quickly spreading. I knew that would not last, however, as one of the Gaius' in our century had lost all feeling in his leg after he was bitten. The most I had been able to do was draw my sword in case the viper decided to stick around before the numbing began.

At the rustling in the grass I prepared for another snake, but it was merely the tribesman. I gave him a wan smile before sinking back to one knee. My sword fell to the dirt and I would have gone with it, had it not been for his sudden intervention. He eased me back to the forest floor with a truly bewildering look on his face. I do not know which of us was more shocked by this turn of events. By the time I was fully reclined the trees above me were beginning to spin. I felt hands upon either side of my helmet before I fear I lost consciousness.

It was sometime later when I awoke. Night had settled over Britannia, but a small fire flickered next to me. I shook my head foggily, feeling decidedly sicker than I last remembered being. But with the dull throbbing in my arm it did not take long to deduce the cause.

And there on the other side of the fire was my barbarian friend. He was watching me like a hawk through the smoke of his cooking. I shivered and felt as if I may be sick after all.

"I thought you may die." Said he, "But it seems you are strong, for a Roman."

I merely blinked at him. I was not yet well enough to converse, though I could deduce several things by our location, the fire, and the absence of my helmet and sword.

My unlikely rescuer gave me a wry grin. "It looked as if you were to kill me. Had the snake not stayed, I would have killed you."

I did have a comment for that. "So… you have abducted me instead."

What little humor he had disappeared. "I left your helmet and sword. No deserter leaves without his weapon. I owed that to you for the snake, but no more."

I had correctly guessed his plan, and it was a clever one. My reputation was hardly in any condition to thrive out here, so it did not matter much to me if he had killed it. I dare say they wouldn't even report me missing.

"Perhaps not, but I owe you my life. I have no love for Rome, and I take it you have even less considering what you-... what your people have been through."

His eyes darkened but he didn't deny it. I tried to sit up and that got a different reaction out of him. He hurried around the fire and pushed me- gently- back down. I was still weak from fighting off the venom, but I could tell by the look on his face that I was no longer in danger.

"They plan to built another wall, someday." I said. "I, for one, see it as no improvement to the landscape."

It seemed I had surprised him again. "I know of some men who would be… interested in speaking with you."

Perhaps Mycroft was right. Perhaps I was squandering my potential in the army.

**A/N: things I know nothing about irl: 1) Rome 2) Ancient Scotland**

**things the fic never diverts from: 1) Rome 2) Ancient Scotland**


	24. Day 24 - A Visit From St Nicholas

**A/N: who am i to deny myself the opportunity to fail at poetry once again?**

**From Domina Temporis: Twas the Night Before Christmas**

'Twas the night before Christmas, in 221B

There was deep trouble brewing for my dear friend and me;

The slipper was hung by the fireplace with care,

And Holmes was a chimney puffing smoke in the air;

Mrs. Hudson was nestled at her sister's away;

While we holed up in Baker Street awaiting our prey;

And Holmes in his dressing gown, and I with my gun,

Stayed up with resolve to see this thing done,

When out on the street there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter.

I looked to the window and was stopped with a hand,

When Holmes bid to wait and spoke no reprimand.

A sound from downstairs had us both set on edge,

I returned to my chair and remembered my pledge,

When what to my wondering ears did I hear,

But a quick tread of footsteps now starting to near,

With almost no sound so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment the danger was thick.

More rapid than either of us thought he should be,

Holmes put out the light, we would wait and see:

"Now, blast him! now, curse him! how hateful and vexing!

On, upward! on, forward! Vengeful and perplexing!

To the top of the stair! to the end of the hall!

I'll have him! I'll have him! For once and for all!"

As shocked as we were to hear such a thing,

When that door opened, I forgot everything;

So up seventeen steps that old man had come

Cursing Holmes all the way; no plain London bum—

And then, in a twinkling, he saw us inside

The mirth he had in those jolly eyes died.

As I dropped low my gun, and was staring in shock,

St. Nicholas broke this long silence to mock.

"You were tough as a child," he said with a wry look,

"Never happy with toys, nor a kit or a book;

Not a thing that I brought from my shop would suffice,

But Sherlock Holmes, I confess, you were always Nice."

His eyes—how they twinkled! And yet not so merry!

His frown was ferocious, his whole face contrary!

"So Sherlock Holmes I am here- you should best listen,"

Despite his great frown, his eyes started to glisten;

"You have done so much good for the entire world,

Have stood up against the countless evils unfurled;

I have long failed to give the correct gift to you

"So now," then he laughed, "I've discovered what to do."

He threw his arms out wide, gesturing to himself,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and he tossed something out

To me and I caught it, not sure what was about;

Holmes spoke not a word, but his eyebrows climbed high,

And St. Nicholas grinned before winking his eye,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

He snuck back down the stairs on the balls of his toes;

He left us in silence much too stunned to speak,

Holmes was without comment, not a word of critique.

But I heard from the street, ere the reindeer took flight—

"Happy Christmas young Holmes, and to all a good night!"


	25. Day 25 - Jona Lewie had it right

**A/N: Merry Christmas everybody**

**From Domina Temporis: The Christmas truce**

Those early days were not as bitter, not as costly to the minds and bodies of men as they would grow to become. The true horrors of global warfare had not been realized. There was an innocence to those days that has been lost. I will not say the new world is better for it, but not only evil came from those great and terrible years in Europe.

It had been some months since I had last seen my friend Sherlock Holmes. We were both getting on in age, he having this year celebrated his 60th birthday. While we were both eager of news and eager to aid, there was only so much to be done by a pair of old relics. My dear friend had taken it upon himself, instead, to go into intelligence gathering rather than try to fight. I fell back into my old ways picking up nearly where I had left off as a Doctor.

Only this time was different. It seemed always to change, and yet stay so terrifyingly the same. I had seen the horrors of war in my lifetime, but as I said these were early days yet. Some five months into the endeavor that we paid for with a generation, Sherlock Holmes was captured by the enemy. I did not know how much peril he had been in at the time. Indeed, it seemed he was the only one fully cognizant of the situation.

As it was, the first words he said to me upon being released went along the lines of "What a Merry Christmas this is Watson!" before, to my great surprise, throwing his arms around me. I was shocked, as this was the first conversation we'd had since October.

"I suppose it is, Holmes." I said, bewildered. "What on earth have you been up to, and how did you come to this part of the front?"

He drew back with a sadder smile this time. "Ah, well... I have been very busy, my old friend, and I am no favorite of the Kaiser for it. Would you believe I have narrowly escaped becoming a prisoner of war?"

Holmes had stunned me for the second time in as many minutes. "What? However did you escape?"

"I didn't escape, which was why the thing was so close." Said he. "My luck lay with a handful of words in passable German and my age. It is much easier to adopt the part of an old man hard of hearing when one has authentic wrinkles customary to the character."

I was still too amazed at his close shave to find the humor in all this. "And they let you on your way without another word?"

He gestured to the men around us, the state of calm that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see. "It is truly a Christmas miracle. But, had this not been my last assignment behind enemy lines... Watson I have no love of war nor the avarice that leads men to it. No pride nor wrath nor lust for power should ever drive me to fully back a decision of such magnitude."

Holmes paused for a long moment and squeezed my shoulder gently. "How brave you are, my friend, to dive into man's folly in the hopes of saving them from it. Not once, but twice in your life you chose the path with so great a personal risk..."

"It is what you do, in your own way." I said, not really knowing what else to say to such a pronouncement. It showed a glimpse of his mind, of his concerns regarding the days to come. I who knew him well could read them clearly. "You do as much from the other side, a shield rather than a suture."

That brought more of a smile to his lips. "Always one to pay a compliment but never receive one in full. I have missed you more than my bees, more than good coffee or all the comforts of home. You might accuse me of becoming sentimental in my old age..."

"But?"

"But nothing." He laughed. "I am a sentimental old fool and perhaps happier because of it."

"I must concur, and plead guilty on my own account."

We rested, as did much of Europe, that Christmas night. It seemed for a moment that the old world was dying slower than it had been. Though the shortest of reprieves, it highlighted the depth of human kindness even amidst the darkest of human cruelty.


	26. Day 26 - Zaroff Target by a Mile

**From Michael JG Meathook: Sherlock finds himself stranded on an island, confronted by a hunter who tells the detective he has a 24-hour head start before he will be hunted like game.**

**A/N: Incredibly spicy, Michael JG, I'm in**

"It is very simple, Mister Holmes." His teeth bared in a crocodile's grin. "You will have a full day to make your preparations. And then, I will use everything in my arsenal to track you down."

His future prey sat before him, looking ganglier for the great blankets and towels encasing him. Holmes, by his guess a hapless Englishman, simply blinked back in confusion. He had been soaked to the bone and freezing when he had washed up on the private island. The hunter supposed while not as challenging a target as he wished, this would be amusing.

"And if I don't wish to participate?"

He laughed. "Then when the twenty-four hours are up, I will come after you anyway."

"That's murder!"

"Not on my island." The hunter relaxed back into his armchair. Orange light from the fireplace bathed him and the room in a sinister glow. "I would call it trespassing and then self defense. That is, if anyone ever found out."

"I should swim to safety then."

"In this cold? You would die before you made it to shore. We are some four miles from land as the crow flies, and mine is the only boat you will find."

The dripping gentleman frowned at him. "Twenty-four hours from when? Now? If it's a day from when I landed or even when I awoke that's hardly sporting."

Again the hunter regarded his mixed luck. What an entertaining fellow this fool Holmes was. With a smirk he set the terms. "Twenty-four hours from when we have finished our conversation here. In the interest of your 'sporting' concerns, I will let you ask me anything you wish. Then we will part ways, and your time will begin."

His prey was quiet a long moment. His brows furrowed, and he adopted the most peculiar expression. He seemed to be thinking very intently. The hunter was nothing if not a patient man.

"Very well." Holmes said at last. "I accept. Though on your honor as a sportsman I shall have no interference from you for the entire time I am allotted. Furthermore, I should like to stay in your guest rooms as it is dashed cold out there and I want my wits about me."

The hunter suspected he would need them. "Naturally, Mister Holmes. You will be as safe here as in your own home, and should fear for nothing until your time is up."

This seemed to satisfy him. "Very good, very good. And am I allowed your kitchens, sir? I should hardly think to start a thing like this on an empty stomach." Before the hunter could answer he carried on. "And a spare set of clothes, I should think. You may be after me, sir, but I am hardly a wild animal. Perhaps a decent pair of boots. I went on a hunt once with my uncles in the country, you know. Nothing for traipsing about in the muck and the cold but a sturdy pair of boots. Oh! Of course, one must be able to get a fire going on jaunts like this. I'll need to collect myself some matches, and perhaps a newspaper or two to get things started-"

"Everything-" the hunter interjected, "-that you could possibly want will be at your disposal." Anything to get him to stop talking would be acceptable. The man was an idiot, and starting to look less and less like an amusing one. "Now, are you finished?"

Holmes searched the ceiling for any additional questions. "Do you have anyone to draw up a bath or shall I muddle through that one myself?"

"Yourself, sir."

"Very good!" Holmes said again and surged to his feet, still damp. "Then begin your little countdown or what have you! I shall have myself off this island and show you just what the Holmes stock is made of!"

The hunter watched him march away in full spirits. Whoever this Holmes character was, he seemed to have a fair amount of misplaced confidence. It also occurred to him that, while not particularly inventive, Holmes might make unexpected moves. He could conceivably stumble across the boathouse and make for land. The man did not look like a sailor, but he would win if he got far out enough in the boat.

Somewhat irritated that he would have to spend these first few hours on guard, the hunter refilled his coffee cup and made his way down to check on the boat. As he passed through the halls, he could hear sloshing water from the guest bath. Holmes was no doubt making a mess, but if he exhausted himself on the bath so much the better.

He passed the kennel on his way to the dock. The dogs looked healthy as ever, in fine fighting form. Perhaps, he thought, a night on guard would provide additional challenge. His prey got a full night's sleep perhaps, and he made sure the playing field was restricted to the island. It seemed like an even trade. If he was off his game for the coming hunt, so be it. They might drag the chase on for a whole hour.

The hunter waited in his chair by the door to the boathouse. He watched the moon reflecting off the water and gazed into the distance. The supply boat had come two days ago, and would not be due until next month. Privacy was necessary and this arrangement could not suit him better. And while he supposed that something significant- such as a passenger on a steamship going overboard- could incite a search, few people knew where the island was. The ship would have to tell the town, who would have to alert the ships docked there. It would be a while before anyone searched here. By then, it would be too late for Mister Holmes.

On the off chance that this castaway had more wit than he imagined, the hunter kept his ears focused and his hand on his hunting knife. No more would be needed against that lanky, hypothermic fop. Only once in the night was there any sign of him. The hunter heard his dogs raise the alarm. Before he could stand, there was a cry and the sound of a hasty retreat. The kennel calmed, and the hunter returned to his vigil.

The sun glowed in the morning fog. Of the sounds out on the island, the loudest by far was the lap of the waves against the dock and the shore. The hunter sheathed his knife, stretched, and headed back up to the house. All was dark inside, but there were signs of his guest everywhere. A handful of books were left out on the library table, and the kitchen was much worse for wear. It was obvious he had made his attempt on the pantry the night before. Bits of potato, bread, and some kind of jelly were littered across the cutting board. Jars had been opened, drawers upended, and cabinets ransacked, but none of the utensils were missing. Holmes had simply made his breakfast and gone.

Puzzled, the hunter began to do another check of the house. The door to his room was locked, as were all of his weapon cases. There was a fine layer of dust on the spare key in the hall. Holmes had been there, evidenced by the jam on the floor, but had not been interested in exploring the house beyond a browsing tour. The vigil by the boathouse had kept him from escaping, sure. But what would his next move be? Did even he know?

The hunter made himself another pot of coffee. It had been bitterly cold on the dock with only his overcoat to keep him warm, but the house was a great comfort. Perhaps Holmes was not completely foolish in wishing to spend his last night indoors. Indeed, it was some hours later when the man himself came downstairs. He stopped abruptly upon seeing the hunter, but shrugged and went about his tasks as usual.

"You won't intimidate me, sir. No, no, I have your game figured out and I will fall for none of your tricks." He examined the coffee pot, sniffed the still-open bag of grounds, and nodded to the hunter. "I doubt a man would poison his own brew. And not, certainly, a sportsman." Holmes poured himself a cup of coffee and began puttering around the kitchen again. True to their agreement, the hunter paid him no mind. He went off to the sitting room to read an account of big game hunting in Africa. It was not his sort of pastime, but his 'peers' occasionally came up with an inventive new trick.

Holmes continued to be a nuisance but in a way the hunter could ignore. He spent the better part of the morning fiddling in the kitchen. Then, he was up and down the stairs, presumably packing supplies for his journey. The hunter did not deign to mention it would be shorter than he imagined. After that Holmes set about tearing up the library again. Only once did the hunter peek in there out of concern for his books, but found Holmes studying an encyclopedia on plants. He did not concern himself with any more of the man's antics.

The afternoon passed slowly, but Holmes had not yet taken flight. Did he mean to wait out the entire twenty-four hours and then make a break for it just before the end? It would be funny. Funny, but a little tedious. At least it would be a break from the norm.

Finally, with only an hour and a half to go, Holmes made an appearance in the sitting room. He had dried his own clothes and was wearing them now, looking much sharper than he had before while still no more prepared to be hunted.

"Well well, if it isn't my host, lounging away while I have been hard at work." Holmes peered at him curiously. "Do you really think me so trivial an opponent as to not prepare yourself?"

The hunter folded his paper with a sigh. "Truly, Mister Holmes, I have never encountered prey quite like yourself."

There was a twinkle in Holmes' eye and he took a seat in the chair on the other side of the fireplace. There was something different about him this morning. For the first time since meeting his new target, the hunter felt as if he was missing something.

"I doubt you have." Holmes said simply. "While I am quite intrigued by your little game, I do have business to attend to." He glanced at the fire. "I have several matters that require my immediate attention. So, while I have seen to all I can in preparation for your game, I would like to ask why you have done so little yourself?"

The hunter stared. Was Holmes really concerned so little about his ability? He had to have seen the trophies mounted on the walls. There were photographs, diaries, weapons, curios… The entire house spoke to his experience. What then? Surely Holmes couldn't be so confident that he would win?

Holmes breathed a sort of laugh and continued. "I would say preparedness is essential. One does not stalk prey that he does not know. You may have hunted men before, but you have never hunted _me_."

There was a coldness to his eyes that the hunter hadn't seen before. As the sun cast its last rays over the island, he realized he had made a mistake. But with his expertise, it would not prove a fatal one.

"Where will you run, Holmes, that I will not find you? I could sink my boat before you left. It will be another month before my supply boat arrives, but I doubt you could survive that long. I have my house full of weapons, my dogs, my whole career as a killer of beasts and a killer of men to my advantage."

"And what if those advantages were stripped away?" He asked calmly, "What would you do then?"

The hunter snorted, but Holmes was not done. "What should you do if your knives were unbladed or dulled, tossed into the ocean or carelessly blunted by a hapless cook?" His lip quirked in a half-smile."What if your guns were without ammunition, your powder and shot and bullets and pistols submerged in a bath? Your dogs given drugged meat overnight?"

Now Holmes had taken on an entirely different appearance. He was the same English gentleman on the outside, but now he revealed the dangerous predator within. "And what if someone had learned every detail of your life? What if they had been given hours to roam your house, study your psychology, achievements, arsenal, capabilities… The list goes on, sir, but this charade does not. By your own admission, we are four miles from shore with only one boat, and I had twenty-four hours mostly unattended. I stole your keys and blew new dust over them. I destroyed your weapons unhindered. You made the mistake of letting another hunter into your home, sir. One with far less left to him to lose."

At some unspoken cue, both men stood. The clock on the mantle was near enough to striking. The hunter, for once, considered abandoning sportsmanship. This was no longer a hunt. This was a fight between equals. This was a fight for survival.

A knock at the door froze both men to the floor. The hunter supposed it may be the supply boat captain. There had been a missing crate in the last delivery, minor things. Holmes might try to escape. The hunter knew his time was limited. Could he silence Holmes and convince the captain of his innocence in the affair? Would he have a second man to hunt before the night was through?

An unfamiliar voice reached his ears. "Hello? Is anyone there? I mean no trespass, but I have been marooned-"

Before the hunter had time to move, Holmes was on him. It was a savage, quick, and decisive fight, ferociously one-sided. Holmes stood from the unconscious body of his so-called host. He crossed the sitting room to the hallway and quickly opened the front door.

"Ah, Watson! Do come in. My apologies for the delay, my dear friend, but I had no idea you had gone overboard as well. Quickly- let's get you seated by the fire. You were in the water and the cold far longer by the look of you. If I, the stronger swimmer of us, washed ashore exhausted, I can only imagine what you have been through. Oh ignore our host, Watson. He was most inhospitable and offered to murder me within minutes of my arrival. Don't laugh, Watson- that smug look does not become you. I will fetch you some towels and perhaps coffee…? Yes old fellow, plenty of sugar, I remember."

**A/N: had to google the Most Dangerous Game since i haven't read it since middle school... much less of a research ask than like the last 3 prompts, as I know nothing about Scottish medicinal herbs, poetry, or WWI. All equally fun and challenging to write, as i do like research and i am a glutton for punishment in that respect**


	27. Day 27 - CRACK An Egg

**From Winter Winks 221: Murder Most Fowl**

**A/N: I hope you wanted jokes because it is all I have**

Inspector G. Lestrade had enough of these birds for one morning. All the gawking and clucking about the crime scene was proving a hinderance to his team, but he wouldn't get his feathers ruffled over nothing. He was waiting, standing vigil while onlookers waddled back and forth.

"Inspector!" The owner of the house, Mister Terner, squawked indignantly. "I must know the reason for this delay! Why can't we have Kingfisher's body removed?"

Lestrade held back a sigh and turned to face the beaky banker. "We are waiting on a second analysis from a Yard consultant. I can assure you, he will get to the bottom of this faster than you can say-"

"Inspector!"

Lestrade was relieved to see two familiar figures pushing past the crowd. "It's about time, gentlemen."

Terner looked their way. "And who might you be? This 'consultant' that Lestrade keeps talking about?"

"Indeed!" He adjusted the bill of his hat before introducing himself. "I am Shelduck Holmes, and this is my associate Doctor Warbler."

"How do you do, sir?"

Ruffled by the politeness of the new arrivals, Terner looked back and forth between them and Lestrade. "Well! Not well at all I suppose. But I will leave you to it. Lestrade, I will be in the drawing room."

Holmes watched him leave before continuing. "What do you say to taking a gander at this crime scene, Lestrade?"

"I should be most appreciative, Holmes. I have an idea or two myself, but we need more than a little dabbling with the facts to get to the bottom of this. Abductive reasoning only gets us so far."

"Right you are. Well, no use dawdling. Let's see to this grisly murder. Oh by the way, Lestrade, care to join us for dinner tonight? Mrs. Hudson is making the most delightful birdseed scones."


	28. Day 28 - Across a Barrier or Space

**A/N: "Hey," you might ask, "is this supposed to sound so OOC and disjointed?" and the answer is yes, for reasons that are stylistic and plot-related.  
**

**From Wordwielder: Over**

Stiff upper lip. I repeated to myself. Stiff upper lip, show no fear, give no ground. My panicked mantra was all I had left. There was nothing for wit to glean nor fate to throw. This was a duel, a plain and simple contest of wills. My hand could not slide from the grip of the old cavalry sword. My feet could not falter on the slippery wood. I only prayed that this fight would not move to the shingles, slick with rain and ever fluttering in the gale. Holmes was in peril, but I was in more danger still. My last hope lay in the stimulants of my late-night coffee and the prayer that they would take effect before something worse. Holmes had insisted he needed none. For once I was glad of it.

The wind slapped my soaking jacket against my chest. I had given Holmes my coat, after his own was wrenched from him, along with his jacket. To borrow a phrase, it was hardly a night for man or beast- but necessity drove me out nonetheless. I could hardly see save for the waves of moonlight on the wind-beaten rain and the glow cast by my adversary's lantern. It hung in the window of the tower marking the escape should either of us survive.

If nothing else, we were evenly matched. He may rule his so-called 'Hunting Club' by some means of persuasion, but he had no such sway over me. We were equals on the odd roof of an even odder castle. Armed only with our swords, we would have to see this through by means of steel. It was anyone's guess as to our respective ability to hack each other to pieces. He could be a skilled fighter. But I was a desperate man.

Over and over we exchanged thrusts and parries. I know not what technical exchanges were made. We fought like bitter enemies, like hated rivals, like opposing sides in a boiling campaign. One would not know by the ferocity of the exchange but we hadn't met before today. In a way, we were longstanding opponents. I fought for justice and he for evil though neither of us saw it at the time. We were distracted. I never saw calculation in his eyes, as I am sure he saw none in mine. We were busy enough trying to swipe, stab, and maim.

Madly, we fought across the rooftop. Our antiquated weapons sounded a cacophony until I managed to score a hit. He was careless, and I sliced his arm.

"First blood!" I cried, holding my sword before me in triumph. "It's over, Samuels, unless you'd like to taste my steel again!"

To my frustration he laughed. "I see you're finally embracing us, Doctor Watson. It took time, but you are here now. Join us once and for all. Taste our victory instead!"

With a growl I lunged for him again. Our fight continued. By now, I was sure we were both drenched in sweat as well as rain. But I knew I had to win. There was something at the core of our conflict that ignited a fire in me. Upon my honor, I had to beat him.

Samuels deflected my swipe and I unbalanced, but he did not press the advantage. "Give in, old man. We'd be glad of you, you know. Why, I know for certain Alan could stand to have another physician around. Think of how much easier things would be for us. And you-" Here Samuels gestured around him, presumably to the castle. "You would have the run of the place. There's so much history here, Doctor Watson. If nothing else, that must appeal to you."

I had no time for a madman. I would vanquish him, and then we would see who was lord of this castle! Samuels put up his guard again, but I could see he was toying with me. Perhaps not, as I nearly disarmed him with my next strike. At the very least he had some secret knowledge that amused him. Maybe it would be less entertaining as he fell over the edge.

At the next opening, I lunged and he was too slow to completely dodge. My sword glanced off his leg, but Samuels' hiss morphed into a chuckle. "You really are taking to it quite well. I had no idea it would be this effective, but it just goes to show-" He blocked another thrust. "Alan knows what he's about. Chin up, Doctor! He'll be finished shortly and we can all put this behind us."

Finished shortly? A wave of confusion swept over me, muddling my senses from the base of my skull on up to my forehead. I blinked the rain from my eyes and tried to shake the feeling clear. Suddenly, Samuels was on me again.

"None of that, Doctor! You were just starting to come along. Now, we've got a fight to finish."

A fight to finish. I barely had time to get my sword up again as he came at me. Something had changed in the tide of battle, and I wasn't sure what. Nothing was clear, except that Samuels meant to kill me- No, that wasn't right! He had been on the defensive all this time, hardly taking advantage of obvious openings or weaknesses in my strategy. In all the fencing I had done with Holmes, I knew when someone was-

Holmes.

Where had he-

Doctor Alan. Holmes-

The realization struck me as if it had been lightning from the storm. Instantly, I felt the chill of the night and the heaviness of my limbs. I saw Robert Samuels and his laughing eyes and his languid sword. And once again, I saw red.

This time, he was not as prepared for the attack. Before I had been sloppy. Now, I realized with a jolt, I had just begun to fight in earnest. The picture was still not clear but I had enough of the pieces. It did not matter who won the fight on the roof. It only mattered that I got past Samuels and down those stairs.

He sensed the change in the fight at once. Samuels pressed, but I was waiting. In a quick movement, I sent his sword flying from his hands. It went over the side of the wall out of his reach. I did not care to see this through to the end. With a shout I shoved past Samuels and made for the open window of the tower. All I had to do now was make it to the door before him. Losing not a moment, I snatched the lantern and took to the stairs. He would be furious and right on my heels. I had no time to waste.

The ancient wooden door was before me in seconds. I dropped my sword, threw it open, and dashed over the threshold, slamming the door shut behind me with all my weight. There was a metal latch on the outside. This I barred an instant before Samuels crashed on the other side. He swore heavily. I did not stay around to hear it.

The hallway was half familiar to me. I knew I had to have come through this way, though I could not remember how I had done so. There was only one other door at the end. A door, and a half-empty rack of swords. My vision swam again and I thought I remembered hearing the scrape of rusted steel. Something wasn't right…

I caught myself on the wall as one of the torches ahead started to spin. I had no time to waste. With my revolver in my hand, I crept forward on the plush carpet. Doctor Alan was in the next wing, with his equipment. I was on the hunt and could not fail. The silence of the castle would not unnerve me again. Jumping at shadows was counterproductive. There was only one way out. I steeled myself for the confrontation.

The interior stone was warm, but warmer still was the handle of my gun. I could imagine the kitchens and the hearth in the main room being near. I had been over this area before without success. Only the final wing of the castle held my answers.

I paused at a strange sound. There was a dripping noise, soft yet near enough to put me on alert. So far indoors, it would have to be a serious leak to allow water through. That, or I was being pursued. The likelihood of my detection was high at such a crucial point. I was in a well-lit, knowingly occupied area of the castle. Anyone could be lurking around. Stalking me, trying to deter me from my course.

No. I would not leave until I had put a bullet through Matthew Alan's brain.

I jerked up my gun as something flickered in my peripheral vision. The hall was empty, save for the lone torch among the lanterns. No one appeared to have been through for sometime. That could hardly stay the case for long. Someone was on my track. I had heard them skulking about before. With one last survey of the room before me, I started to lower my revolver. It was the shock of my life to discover that this was not my gun, and an altogether different kind at that.

I turned over the completely unfamiliar piece. It was a Lancaster, a four-shot, with one of the rounds missing. I quick search of my damp pockets let me know I had no other ammunition with me. Where on earth had this weapon come from, and where was my revolver?

Shaking my head in frustration, I remembered. I generally kept my revolver in my coat pocket. Indoors, in only my jacket, I had left my coat somewhere else. Of course, I had given it to Holmes…

The lackey's face was beginning to purple, but I cared little for him at the moment. He would stay pinned to the wall by the mop handle until I had my answers or until his stubbornness cost him. Once more I would ask, and it was entirely up to him if he would survive the encounter.

"Doctor Alan. Is he here?"

With what seemed like the last of his strength, the man pointed to the door in the center of the back wall. Where that lead, I could hardly wait to find out. I released the pressure from his neck and dropped him with a single blow. He should count himself lucky. His friend with the knife would have a nasty concussion. But these two were not my targets. I hunted another, far more dangerous man.

The center door led downward. It was a dark and musty stairwell, haunted with the remnants of cobwebs but still too clean to be out of use. Dry air hung still like a curtain. Whether the lackey was lying or not remained to be seen, but someone was down here. The walls and floor were built of stone so dark it may as well have been quarried from a starless sky. The rest of the castle loomed low over my head as I journeyed down, ignoring the sharp pain in my wrist and the throbbing under the bandages. I had only my fists now to aid me. It would have to be enough. Anyone I met along this route had better be prepared.

A hair's breadth of light flickered on the wall ahead. I got into a crouch as I finished the last few stairs and crossed over to a large wooden door. Behind this was the light. Alan would be there. I had torn the castle apart for him, but he could not evade me. I had hunted him down to his lair and now I would have him at last.

The door opened silently on well oiled hinges. This had to be the place. What first caught my eye were the jars on the other side of the room. There was a great bookshelf lined and labeled, housing a glittering array of glass vessels. Near this was another shelf stuffed with books. I peered through the crack in the door for more information. Unarmed, I wished to press my advantage as far as I may. There was a ticking sound- a clock- and the crackle of a fireplace yet unseen. I thought I could hear a voice as well. Gently, I pushed the door open further. It swung without a sound.

Now I had a better sense of the room. The fireplace was on the far wall, and a large set of cabinets blocked it from my view. It seemed there was no direct line of sight from it to the door, and for this I was grateful. I looked to my left and grabbed a book from the nearby desk. Careful not to shuffle papers, I lifted it as I got myself clear of the door. I placed the book upright between the door and the jamb so it would not make a sound as it closed. I did not want Alan to know I was coming until it was too late.

Noiselessly I crept around the cabinet. The glow of the fireplace was stronger now, and I could see that Alan had other lanterns lit for his dark work. Soon, I would put an end to it. I shook a swimming feeling from my head as I passed by a chemistry table. It would not do to lose my balance and knock into something noisy.

At last I had him in my sights. Alan was murmuring to himself with his back to me. So focused was he on whatever was in front of him that he would not hear me coming. I had not made a plan thus far, but with him distracted, now was the time. Quickly, I scanned the nearby tables and shelves for a weapon but found none. All was the better.

I would challenge Alan, I decided, and against so great an evil I dared not lose. Eliminating that impossibility, I pressed my hands against my eyes in an attempt to clear the last of this ache that seemed to permeate my skull. Perhaps my identity as a Doctor was manifesting in protest. No, that couldn't be it. I had killed before to save a life, and many lives would be saved when this evil was expunged.

Now was the time. I stood, straighted up, and issued my challenge. "You are without honor, Matthew Alan! We will settle this once and for all, and I will put an end to your evil deeds!"

A touch of melodrama was more than enough to startle him. Alan turned, and in doing so unobscured his work. I felt a fresh, freezing wave of horror drench me head to foot. How had I forgotten? There before me was my friend Sherlock Holmes, gagged and bound to a wooden armchair. I was… late. When I had left- when I had left, they were to be taking a tour of the library. How long had I been away? My eyes darted to the stunned Alan for a clue. He looked the same as before, only with his lab apron on and a syringe in his hand-

Holmes' hands had been secured palm-up to the arms of the chair, and I had the double surge of panic and relief to see that I was not too late. It seemed I had remembered just in time.

I squared my shoulders. With a yell I lunged for Alan. We crashed into one of the bookshelves and went topping over with it. I felt the wood crack under him before I swung again. The syringe fell from his hand. He was not the fighter Samuels had been. He was soft, a coward hiding behind walls of stone and seeking shelter in the cover of darkness. Well, no more. His head whipped to the side and his body went limp, with only a sluggish wheeze left to prove he was still alive.

I could nearly feel the blood boiling beneath my skin. My wrist throbbed, but it was easier to ignore now. They had all come against me and failed. I would have liked to see another try, to get the chance to put another nail in the coffin. A slight noise from behind me reminded me of my primary objective. I picked myself up from the ruins of the bookcase. Turning, I was alarmed to see the expression on Holmes' face. My brow furrowed as I hurried to him. Pain? Worry? With the dizziness threatening to overtake me, I was not sure…

"You're not hurt are you, Holmes?"

He needed time to recover. He needed to be seen to, and in a safer location than this. I put myself between him and the mad doctor. Holmes was struggling to get past, but I wouldn't allow this maniac to get ahold of him again. We were backed into a corner, and all I had available to defend us with were the scissors that villain had so carelessly left within my reach. They underestimated me again, and it would be their undoing.

"Stay back!" I commanded. "You will not lay another hand on him!"

"Watson!" Holmes sounded more frustrated than alarmed. "Stop this at once. That is Doctor Cartwright from Maybridge, who is trying to tend to your wounds."

"Really, sir, there is no need of all of his hullaballoo-" The fiend said. I adjusted my grip on the scissors and kept them aloft.

"He's not himself." Holmes tried again, this time managing to pry my arm away and squeeze by. I tried to stop him, but he held fast to my elbow. "Samuels gave him something at dinner- a drug they were developing. There now, old fellow-"

I was forced to lower the scissors as Holmes set himself between me and the danger. It was unwise to turn his back- I lifted a hand to my eyes as my friend began to go out of focus. He took this chance to pull the weapon from my grasp.

"Holmes, it's far too dangerous-"

"The danger has passed, Watson." His tone was calmer now. How he could maintain his composure in such dire straits was baffling. "You do not remember, but you are suffering from the effects of a behavior-altering drug." At his insistent push I sat, and found a soft cot behind me. "It is too soon to know how long this will last, but the time between spells is growing longer."

"Spells?" I asked uneasily.

He nodded and leaned down to get a look at something on my face. Holmes was frowning, and I could see our acquaintance, the American Doctor Carwright peering at me from behind him. How he had come to be here, I did not know.

"This has happened before?" Cartwright asked.

"Twice." Holmes replied. "Once when we were still inside Barditch Castle, and another on the ride back here. With the presence of the Constable and the fact that we were in a moving cart, it was easier to remind him."

I blinked at him, trying to put together the pieces of what he was saying. "We have had this conversation twice since… apprehending Samuels' gang and returning to Maybridge?"

He made a small noise which may have been a sigh of relief. "Once before and once after, but you are mostly correct. Do you remember recounting to me the events surrounding your escape?"

I frowned again. "I remember Samuels taking me up to the rooftop. He said I should join him, that I could become like the rest. Once he began talking, it was easy to determine who in the castle was part of the plot and who was…" It was not as clear to me as I fear it should have been. The hunting club had proved to not be what they seemed, but I could not remember how we had beaten them in the end. There were at least a dozen in the inner circle, those who would follow Samuels and Alan wherever their crooked compass led. I did not know what became of them.

"My dear Watson, do not try too hard to remember." Holmes said at last. "Let Doctor Cartwright supply you with fresh bandages. When he is finished, you should rest. You have been through quite an ordeal."

He stepped aside to let Cartwright finish his work. I apologized quietly, but the old American brushed it aside. It seemed all there was to tend to was a slash on the back of my wrist I don't remember receiving, and a deep soreness in the shoulder of the same arm. I watched as Holmes observed the proceedings a moment before taking a seat.

"Relax, old fellow, I am not going anywhere." He retrieved his pipe from the nearby table. With a jolt, I placed myself at last. We were back at the Maybridge Inn, in our rooms. He saw the realization play out on my face and offered up a sad smile.

"I'm not going anywhere, Watson. It's over. And if it is over, and then over again, I will be here still."

**A/N: Merriam Webster says:**

_Over, adjective: brought or **come to an end**_

_Over, adverb: once more; **again**_


	29. Day 29 - The Dead Man's Stroll

**From W. Y. Traveller: A midnight stroll**

I was off on my rounds extraordinarily late, as the birth of one Laurel Elizabeth Whittaker had gone longer than any of us would have wished. Luckily, I had been able to leave the newest Whittaker happy and healthy with her parents by 11:45. While unsure as to whether Holmes would remain out upon this week's investigation, Baker Street was closest. I would head there at once. There was no sense in dawdling at this hour.

I kept an even pace, not too brisk, as I aimed to keep to the edge of the park rather than head straight across. There was light enough from the street lamps and the moon, but I still kept an eye out. There was faint hope for engaging a cab at this hour, on a weeknight, but I kept persistent watch. I could scarcely feel my toes for the slush on the ground. Really, if I saw so much as a horse drawn wagon-

Turning the corner, I saw an old church graveyard to my left. The stones were dark on the brilliant snow, and all was still in the yard. As I have put it to writing before, I am not the superstitious type. Yet I found myself slowing as I passed the iron fence. Perhaps it was with reverence that I eased by the cemetery.

An entirely different sensation overcame me when I looked back up the sidewalk. There was a figure exiting by the cemetery gate dressed to the nines. He wore all black, carried a cane, and crowned his look with an elegant tophat. What captured my attention however was his walk. Despite the swinging ease with which he sauntered down the street, there was an unnatural rhythm to his gait that I could not fathom.

It can be said that my long partnership with Sherlock Holmes had taught me healthy suspicion. What business a gentleman dressed for a ball had in a graveyard… It was his own business. But, since his way home coincided with mine, I made to follow him.

He did not waver from his path and his head seemed to bob in time to some unknown tune. As he passed under a streetlamp, the light reflected off his spotless white gloves. He tapped a finger against the head of his cane and pressed on.

I was too curious now to quit. He showed no signs of chill even without an overcoat. His pace did not slacken regardless of the terrain. I know my talents of observation hardly compare with Holmes', but there was nothing I could deduce beyond the obvious. Even then there was more to this man than I knew, I could feel it.

I turned another corner and was met with a frustrating sight. The man in the tophat had gained some distance, though it didn't appear as if he had changed his pace at all. Forgetting the cold, I hurried after him. I was careful to avoid the larger piles of slush on the sidewalk as I ran. I was catching up. The man looked like he was about to turn the corner when I hurried across the street.

A pair of hands snatched me back by the shoulders of my coat just before a private carriage thundered down the road. I felt the chill snap back into my bones in a rush. The wheels kicked up a slurry of ice where I had been standing an instant before. Out of breath, I turned to thank my rescuer only to find myself staring into the soot-covered face of Sherlock Holmes!

"My dear Watson!" He said, startled, "What possessed you to stay out so late, and perfectly heedless of your surroundings at that?"

My brow furrowed and I pointed down the street. The man in the tophat had disappeared.

"A suspicious gentleman dressed for a much finer evening than this. He stole away from a graveyard as I passed. I was trying to see if he was up to anything."

I could not swear it in the low light, but under the layer of soot my friend's face seemed to pale. "And this gentleman… He wore a black suit and walked with a cane?"

"Ah." His voice seemed shakier somehow. "I am familiar with him, Watson. I can assure you he was up to something, but that he is an adversary neither of us is equipped to face."

Holmes was not very forthcoming as we finished the walk back to Baker Street. He only gave some explanation as to his presence. It involved a mysterious string of deaths along that road that he seemed to think would not continue after tonight.

Regardless, I was glad when we finally arrived at Baker Street. It was a comfort after that harrowing midnight stroll.

**A/N: When in doubt: google it. Inspiration can strike from any direction**

Based heavily on _Midnight Stroll_ \- the Revels


	30. Day 30 - Holmes on the Range

**From Hades Lord of the Dead: A warning.**

There was a marked difference between the smell of earth and the smell of dirt. Earth was rich and leafy, full of life and moisture and promise of things growing. Dirt was hard and dry. Clay and sand fought to be the dominating influence, sucking any hint of damp away into brittle grit. It was semantics. So much was, out here.

"Now that sounded awfully like an insult there, Mister."

The saloon was nearly silent. No amount of sliding glasses, shuffling boots, or light coughs could disguise the fact that all conversation had ceased. One man dared use the spitoon and the noise eclipsed everything else. I remained in a somewhat relaxed position as I had been instructed. It seemed like my ability to maintain a scowl would be my only contribution at the moment.

"Not at all, my American friend." Holmes said, his tone a hair too close to flippant, "I find in business ventures, there is great benefit to be had in learning about one's potential partners."

The gunbelt was uncomfortable but I fought the urge to shift. After all, I was to be the hired help in this masquerade. Holmes would do all the talking- which suited me perfectly- and I was to assist by 'looking tough'. It was common enough in the American West to parade around with a bodyguard of some kind.

"Really," Holmes continued, "It would hardly do to approach the table without knowing you come from a line of miners, have great experience with horses, and have recently come into wealth." He made a brushing motion with his hand. I had no doubt that to the bar's patrons he seemed every bit the foolish English gentleman he pretended to be.

I was the only one in on the secret. Not even Sheriff Lymann knew he was getting tips from Sherlock Holmes. Of course, the deductions he spouted off made it seem as if he had an informant. It would benefit us to make the gang we were seeking on edge. If they thought there was a traitor in their ranks, they would be less trustful of each other. It seemed they would also prove to be quicker to temper.

"I don't like what you're insinuatin', Mister Escott." Even I could see the finery was new, and the marks on the man's skin from a lifetime of labor would hardly be hidden by a sudden change of fortune. It was no insult, but something told me we were on the right track. This Mister Banks was too eager to start a fight to be an ordinary, respectable businessman.

"I insinuate nothing, sir." he denied again. "A miner knows his goods, a cowboy is loyal-"

I knew Holmes was simply trying to get Banks to force his hand, but he was treading too close to the line. When Banks surged to his feet, I suspected Holmes had already sauntered across it. Every man in the saloon tensed as Banks went for his gun, aimed, and shot an empty bottle off the bar.

"That was a warning, Escott."

"Really?" Holmes didn't so much as flinch, though I was hard-pressed to keep a reaction off my face. It was an expert shot, though quite believable with the background Holmes proclaimed him to have.

Without a word, Holmes snatched the gun from my holster, swiveled his arm back, and fired a second shot. The shards of another bottle hit the floor. I turned back to see the impossible shot he'd made- left handed even- and raised incredulous eyebrows at Holmes. His eyes held a twinkle and quickly flicked towards the wall. I nearly laughed when I saw the mirror. It was perfectly angled. Holmes had made trickier shots for the Irregulars' amusement than this. I fought the urge to shake my head as he handed my gun back to me.

"_That_ was a warning, Mister Banks." Holmes flexed his fingers before resting one hand and drumming the table. "Now, shall we get back to business?"

Stupefied, the cowboy sat. I relaxed back into my chair once more. It looked as if things had gotten a lot more interesting for our colonial cousins.


	31. Day 31 - For (we're very) Auld Lang Syne

**From V Tsuion: Fairy lights**

Flames licked the last remaining log resting on the ashes of the nights previous logs. The embers were glowing red against the dark wood and white ash. Holmes was curled up in his chair like a rumpled coat, gazing into the dying fire. I was settled on the settee with a book. It was an ordinary night, save for the day and the hour. True, I have written about our odd hours, but...

Holmes threw a glance at the clock. He twisted his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other. I tapped a finger against the side of my book. Nothing could distract me, yes a distraction was what we both sought. The pendulum clicked in a mockery of our plight.

All at once, Holmes sprang to his feet. "Watson! The window!"

I leapt up. We'd been waiting for this. He threw back the curtains to reveal a still dark street- my eyes widened at the sight of a low flickering flame. How Holmes had seen it, I would never guess.

The light twinkled and sparked in the street before it was joined by another. And another. Soon, the cobblestones were ablaze with glittering sparks. They were beautiful. Even without any sort of coordination or design, the wands of light managed to sway back in forth in such a way as to suggest a great flock of fairies.

"Beautiful, Watson." Holmes said. "To think that simple chemistry could be utilized to such a brilliant effect..."

"The snow makes it all the more luminous I think." I agreed with him wholeheartedly, as the scene was quite breathtaking. We watched in silence as the progression continued. After a long moment, the earlier lights began to dim and then die. One by one the sparklers went out and the street was lit only by lamplight once again.

"Breathtaking." Holmes said at last. "But do you know how I would wish to commemorate the new year? Do you know what sight would cheer me most of all?"

"What Holmes?"

"The inside of my eyelids, Watson. I'm off to bed at once. I am exhausted."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Happy New Year, Holmes. Let's celebrate it your way. See you tomorrow old chap."

"No, Watson," my friend grinned. "See you next year."


End file.
